by Damien Love
“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.”
XXXVIII.
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.
EPILOGUE
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.