by Mark Cassell
Victor told Goodwin about the last couple of days, starting with the mystery girl ramming us off the road, and the discoveries at Stanley’s house, the emails from Tulip Moon, and the dried-up corpse. Goodwin’s reactions appeared genuine: shock and disbelief mostly. Occasionally, he’d glance at me and shake his head. Each time, I’d avert my eyes. Skipping the part about my 3 a.m. phone call from the middle of a field, Victor went on to explain his ransacked flat. Here, Goodwin sounded sympathetic, and when he heard about the discoveries at Polly’s cottage, he became agitated, especially when learning our mystery girl was Tulip Moon, who turned out to be Annabel.
He reached for his phone, speed dialling. Eventually, he said, “Polly’s not answering.”
Victor nodded. “We couldn’t find her either.”
Telling Goodwin all that happened at the bookshop, including my faint, Victor struggled with his description. It was the part about when the Shadow Fabric tore Lucas to pieces.
“Victor,” Goodwin said, “bloody hell, that’s awful. He was a good man, and did a lot for us.”
I avoided Victor’s gaze and eyed the book. I didn’t want to look at either of them. Hearing the story told like that was strange, and I wasn’t certain if it made things clearer or more absurd. Either way, it was completely crazy.
“So,” Victor said and sat up straighter, “here we are. There’s The Book of Leaves.”
I was still waiting to faint.
“A book,” Victor continued, “containing the shadowleaves of captured witches. Put on trial by the Witchfinder General himself. A marvellous piece of history.”
Victor was leading up to something, I thought.
“And,” he said, “one of few artefacts to survive those dark times of the witch trials…the other being the Hourglass.”
I waited for Goodwin’s reaction. His face revealed nothing. I looked at the pad on his desk and wondered what he’d done with his doodle. And what of the invoices?
“Over the last week,” Victor added, “we’ve found the Witchblade and The Book of Leaves. Even the Shadow Fabric has turned up.”
Again I thought of Lucas exploding into pieces.
Goodwin slowly ground out his cigar. The ash reminded me of Lucas’s body parts.
“Yet the Hourglass remains elusive.” Victor pointed at the book. “We have proof of its existence right there. Each one of those shadowleaves extracted by use of the Hourglass. There is no other way to remove a shadowleaf from a person. Witch or not.”
“Possibly,” Goodwin said softly, “that particular artefact has been lost through the ages.”
Victor didn’t say a word. I wanted to say a lot…too much. I clamped my jaw tight to stop myself screaming at Goodwin, telling him how I’d trusted him over these last couple of years. I wanted to admit that I saw him as a father. And I wanted to ask why he was out in the woods with handcuffed men—at gunpoint.
Eventually, Victor said, “You might be right, Goodwin. You might be right.”
Victor was playing a game. It felt as though the two of us were against everyone else. He reached for The Book of Leaves and dragged it towards him.
“I’m going to burn the book.” Victor slammed it shut. As the leather pages came together, the slap filled the room like a thunderclap.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Goodwin shoved his chair back. “You can’t do that.”
“Why not?” Victor had the book in his lap, pulling the cloth over it.
“Because it’s a remarkable artefact, a fantastic piece of history.”
“It’s dangerous. Imagine the potency of evil should these leaves be stitched.”
“We must keep it.” Goodwin’s face reddened, his eyes bulging.
“We don’t need it. It serves no purpose to our greater goal. It can’t help us in destroying the Fabric. It’s not a tool we can use against the darkness.”
“No, but we can use it to learn more about the Witchfinder.”
“We don’t need to do that. You know we don’t.” Victor pulled string from his pocket and tucked it under the package.
“We can keep it, locked up tight.”
“There’s no point. No need.” Between nimble fingers, Victor made a bow with one end of the string and looped the other around it.
“You can’t destroy it, Victor.” Goodwin came to his feet, fists knuckling the desk. “What the hell are you playing at?”
I stared at him. What are you playing at, Goodwin?
Victor said nothing.
“This is absurd.” Goodwin towered over the desk.
“It’s absurd to think you want to keep it. What can you—we—possibly do with it? Can we learn anything more about the Shadow Fabric?”
“That’s beside the point, we can’t just burn the thing.” Goodwin’s eyes were ready to pop from his face.
“I said this book is dangerous.” Victor pulled both ends of the string tight. “Its concentrated evils could be the unmaking of everything. Its darkness could leak into the world. Stitch this lot, and there would be no stopping the Shadow Fabric.”
“And like this to infinity,” I said.
Goodwin glanced at me and his head tilted, then his attention dropped to the photo frame next to him.
Several seconds passed, and Victor stood up. I took that as my cue, got up myself, and walked to the door. I grasped the handle—Goodwin’s presence burned behind me—and I pulled it open. Victor joined me.
“I don’t believe you’re telling me everything, Goodwin.” He strolled out of the office. Over his shoulder, he said, “Leo, we have a fire to build.”
I paused on the threshold. Goodwin on one side and Victor on the other. He was already halfway across the foyer. Goodwin’s attention remained on the photograph of his father.
I followed Victor.
CHAPTER 24
Victor struck a match. His hand and face glowed, and he held the flame against a bundle of twigs at the base of the pyre. Near the top, wedged between branches and covered with dry bracken, sat The Book of Leaves. It was still wrapped in cloth.
A short distance away, a waterfall surged over rocks and into a stream that curled into the woods and the darkness beyond. Its rumble soothed my tumbling thoughts.
The drive hadn’t been too far into the countryside when we found a secluded area, and once the headlights were off, the darkness hid us from the road. Besides, we doubted anyone would be travelling through the lanes so late at night.
With our fire only hip-high, when the flames flared, it soon became an impressive pyramid. The wrapping caught quickly, and the leather bubbled and shrivelled.
The stink was incredible, like overcooked and still-smoking meat. We stepped back.
“Polly should be with us,” Victor said. “She deserves to be here.”
“Where could she be?”
“Annabel must have her.”
I chewed my lip. I still found all this difficult to believe.
Victor shook his head, the fire dancing in his eyes. “She obviously knows we’re onto her. She doesn’t want us to interfere with her plans.”
“And what are they?” I wondered how many more people would die before this ended. If it ended.
“I can only assume she’s in it with Stanley. Both of them want to stitch the Fabric.”
“We’ve stopped them getting the book,” I said. “Can they stitch another way?”
“The Fabric can continue to grow. But it would be slow. Not the same as stitching shadowleaves. Its evil wouldn’t be as potent. However, it would intensify the more life force it absorbs.”
“People can be absorbed.”
“Once it’s powerful enough, the intensity of evil within the Fabric would manifest to such a degree, there’d be no stopping it.”
I thought about that for a moment, the darkness taking over everything. “Still think Goodwin has the Hourglass?”
“I certainly have no doubts now.”
“I was close to confronting the guy.”
; “I know, Leo. Thanks for not saying anything. I didn’t press him about his secrets. Long ago, I learned that answers eventually come.”
“You think he’s working with Tulip Moon or Stanley?” When I asked that, I knew my face screwed up.
“No.”
I relaxed.
“If that was the case,” he continued, “he wouldn’t have let us out of his office.”
The thought horrified me. I couldn’t believe Goodwin would do anything to hurt us. Not after all he’d done for me. And given the history these two men shared, it was difficult to accept the possibility Goodwin could harm Victor. Yet, given recent revelations…
“Goodwin either knows where the Hourglass is,” Victor said, “or he actually has it.”
“And he hasn’t told any of you guys.”
“That’s one question on the list, with why he was rounding people up at gunpoint.”
“Yeah, back in his office that’s all I could think about.”
The Book of Leaves hissed and spat. It shifted to the centre of the fire and flared. I threw another bunch of twigs onto it. The leaves instantly crackled.
I said, “He didn’t want you to burn the book.”
“That, my friend, is what worries me.”
Flames surged around the curling leather pages and a cloud of smoke belched outwards. The stink crawled into my nostrils. I coughed and stepped away.
“If anyone should want to keep the thing, it should be you, Victor.”
Tiny fires reflected in his unblinking eyes.
“You’re the book collector,” I added.
“I am. But this isn’t one I wish to keep.” For the first time, he looked old. Someone had ransacked his flat, his books torn and heaped in a mess of broken shelves, he had finally come to a kind of reconciliation with his friend Lucas, who the Fabric then ripped apart.
Beyond the light of our fire, shadows flitted between the trees. Real, normal shadows. I hoped they were normal. There was a difference between ordinary shadows and the Shadow Fabric—the presence of the Fabric, it clogs the head. Heavy, like a lingering cold blocking the sinuses. The country air was crisp and fresh, a typical spring night, and not the heavy atmosphere I’d recently experienced.
Occasionally, Victor and I heaped more twigs onto the fire, burying The Book of Leaves deeper into its heart. When there is a campfire, there is always something to do to it. Even if it’s a prod or two, something to move the burning branches and logs around, and in this case the book. It’s never a proper fire unless it’s being stoked. Fire connects with us all at a subconscious level. Somewhere, deep within us, is the prehistoric man, the caveman who first brought flame to life in order to banish the darkness.
The fire dwindled to charred branches and heaps of embers, The Book of Leaves little more than a clump of smoking goo. Tiny flames leapt in places.
The dark sky pressed on the trees, and an impenetrable black squeezed us in. It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, having been staring at those flames for a long time. Dark adaptation, a phrase I’d learnt from Goodwin when stargazing.
I stepped away, leaving Victor silent and unmoving.
From the road, a fair distance behind the car, a pair of headlights flashed through the woods. The beams snapped us alert. Given the tumbling of the nearby waterfall, we hadn’t heard the vehicle approach. Blinded, we stumbled and shielded our eyes. The car skidded to a halt, kicking up a flurry of leaves and dirt.
I couldn’t make out the car through the glare of its headlights. Was it the police? Had they found us after the bookshop burning? Was it Annabel?
“Victor!” I shouted. “Get into the car.”
I squinted, my face still hot from the fire, and watched him dash for our vehicle. He held a gun.
CHAPTER 25
In the car, I forced it into reverse with a crunch. We faced the same direction as the stationary car. In my mirror its headlights were a pair of blinding orbs. At any moment, I expected a door to spring open, or the car itself to rush forward and smash into us. Perhaps even gunfire.
Surrounded by trees, it seemed impossible to manoeuvre, yet I tried. I shoved and yanked the gear stick from first to reverse, reverse to first. I palmed the steering wheel and stamped my right foot from the accelerator to the brake and back again. My breath hissed between my teeth.
Victor had wound down his window, his gun now held in both hands.
The other car still hadn’t moved, nor was there any sign of the driver.
After many curses, I got the BMW to face the blocked exit. I now saw what car it was and recognised it immediately: a red convertible. Its soft-top was in place—unsurprising, given the chill of the night. It was our mystery girl again, no longer a mystery.
“Tulip Moon,” I said. “Annabel.”
The headlight glare switched to sidelights and dragged in the shadows from all sides. A moment later the driver’s door popped open and a slight figure stepped out. She walked in front of the vehicle, becoming a silhouette. Hooded, her face was in shadow. With all my hectic manoeuvring, I hadn’t even turned my lights on. I flicked the switch. A hand came up to shield her face, yet she still strode towards us. She wore the same outfit as she did when she stole the Witchblade from Victor at the beginning of the week: dressed in black, with a red scarf looped about her neck.
I sat there, keeping the revs up, ready to ram her if she pulled a firearm on us. My heart twisted with the thought. Could I really do that? Maybe she’d use the Witchblade against us…or the Shadow Fabric. I revved the engine more. Again, I wondered if I was truly capable of running someone over. I hoped I didn’t have to find out.
Victor leaned sideways and pushed his gun out, still in both hands. I heard a metallic click as he pulled back the hammer. Annabel stumbled to a halt and shot both hands up. She reached high.
“Put the gun down, Victor,” she called. There was a slight accent to how she said his name. She sounded strange.
“Annabel, how many more times are you going to try to kill us?” Victor shouted, levelling the weapon on her.
“It’s…” I said, realising something. “It’s not—”
“I’m not Annabel,” she interrupted and pulled her hood down. “My name is Isidore, and I’ve come to you because I’m scared.”
I switched the car’s headlights to full beam and the girl averted her eyes in a tumble of blonde hair.
“I am not Tulip Moon either,” she added.
Given a brief glimpse of her face before it hid behind those curls, a memory slapped me hard. A recent memory. I recognised her, my mind racing back in time. I’d seen this girl before at Lucas’s bookshop. She was the one who caught me checking her out.
Victor threw me a glare, keeping the gun on the girl. “Leo, why are you laughing?”
I didn’t realise I was. “She’s been following us all week. In her little red convertible.”
“Not the van, then?”
“No, we know that was Annabel. This is the girl who stole the Witchblade.” If this wasn’t Annabel, then meeting Isidore now kicked up a heap of new questions.
“Two different people.” Victor frowned. He shoved open the door, the gun steady, and slowly got out.
Isidore remained where she was, her face still obscured by her mane of hair. I left the engine rumbling and joined Victor. Keeping her in sight, we stepped towards her.
“Isidore, is it?” Victor said, and we stopped in front of the car, blocking the headlights.
In response, she raised her head. It was her, pretty features and dark eyes. Attractiveness aside, she’d been following us, threatened us at gunpoint, and stole the Witchblade.
Victor kept his gun raised, now head-height. We wanted answers.
“Please,” she said, “lower your weapon. I’m not here to do you any harm. I want your help, and I’m thinking you need mine.”
“Really?” Victor said.
“I have your magic knife.”
“Of course you do. You stole i
t.”
“I did and I’m sorry.” Her accent was hard to place.
“Why steal it?” Victor asked.
“I was under instruction.”
“Go on.”
“By a person called Tulip Moon.”
Victor’s eyebrows twitched.
“At first,” she continued, “things were good. The money was good.” Her eyes glistened and her voice trembled. “Then I was a witness to the devil’s work.”
I leaned against the bonnet. Here it comes again, all that witchcraft bullshit.
Victor lowered his gun, the barrel now aimed at her feet.
“Last night I saw Death,” she said, “and it spoke to me. I heard its voice. I heard many voices. I tasted fire, could smell the fear and see the pain, and when I closed my eyes, I knew something wanted me—something large, powerful, and perhaps even greater than God. The opposite of God. It wanted to show me pleasure and desire and the answers to all questions. At the same time it wanted to be me. Eat me and kill me. Drown me and burn me. It wanted me to kill myself. It wanted me to starve, to jump from a roof. It wanted me to bang my head against the wall…and it wanted to love me. It told me it loved me, and inside those words, I saw my head bloody as I smashed it against the wall. I felt its own desire and pleasures. All it wanted was my death. It wanted to suck in my life and blow it out as darkness. And that darkness was all there was. And this frightened me more than anything. More than the other strange things I saw. It wanted me to exist as nothing. A darkness so much more than Death’s offering.”
Victor’s arm dropped to his side, pointing the gun at the ground.
Isidore lowered her hands. Her shoulders sank into her already small frame, and she cried.
* * *
Isidore told us how she’d come to this country searching for release from a world of burglary and drugs. Leaving—or rather chased from—Greece, she’d hoped to start afresh in England. Wanting to begin a new life here in the Southeast, in Kent to be precise. After all, she’d heard so much about the Garden of England.