by Kat Ross
“Ah. You’ve missed the boat, I’m afraid. Seven pages were just sold at auction.” A shadow passed over his features. “And I was unable to acquire them.”
“I understand. But we hoped you might be able to tell us something about the pages themselves.” Vivienne paused. “It’s unclear why they were included among the other lots.”
Mr. Crawford tilted his head, considering. “Well, I can show you one. I bought it at a previous sale. It’s currently on hold for a client, but I suppose you might have a look.”
“That would be wonderful,” Vivienne said, beaming. “We’ve traveled all the way from London.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “And Mr. Ashdown says Mr. Summersbee has a rather prickly disposition. That’s why we came to you first.”
The mention of his rival’s name made Crawford shudder, as though a goose had just stepped over his grave. “An intolerable man,” he muttered. “I would compare him to Mr. Dickens’ Scrooge, but that does a disservice to the character.” His brown eyes twinkled with malice. “Mr. Summersbee,” he said, “would have sent those spectral visitors screaming into the night. He is the personification of evil. And I say this as one who always seeks out the good in my fellow man. Unfortunately, in Summersbee’s case, it is a futile effort.”
With this pronouncement, Mr. Crawford led them into the back room. A large table held several books in the process of having their bindings repaired. Shelves against the wall displayed extra boards, cloth and paper, along with different sizes of needles and thread, and jars of glue. A book press held a copy of Jules Verne’s Five Weeks in a Balloon clamped between its jaws.
“Very little is known about the life of Claudius Ptolemy,” Crawford said, rummaging through a chest of drawers. “He was a Greek who lived in Alexandria around 100 A.D. Besides his interest in geography, he was an astronomer and mathematician.”
“I’ve read the Almagest,” Alec said. “A brilliant man, even if he did believe the Earth was the center of the universe.”
“Indeed. His influence on later astronomers can hardly be overstated. That’s why these pages are so unusual.”
Crawford removed a binder containing a single large sheet of paper, which he laid on the table.
“Here it is. Cost a pretty penny,” he said. “I’ll thank you not to touch it. The parchment is quite fragile.”
The plate depicted the lands surrounding the Arabian desert: Palestina, Syria, Mesopotamia and Babylonia. Vivienne’s home was there somewhere, Alec knew. A land called Al Miraj, although it had vanished from the history books long before Ptolemy was even born.
“Identical to the 1478 edition, but with one small change that makes it priceless,” Crawford said. His finger hovered above the point where the Nile River divided in its flow toward the Mediterranean. Egypt’s ancient capital of Memphis.
Alec squinted and leaned over the map.
“You see it, right there? Et portae inferni. The gate to Hell.”
Alec felt the blood drain from his face. Vivenne’s own shock echoed through the bond.
“Are you all right, Mr. Lawrence?” the shopkeeper asked. “Would you like to sit down?”
“I’m fine,” Alec managed. “Do other pages have this symbol?”
“I only know of this one, and the seven that were just sold. I had a chance to view the pages at Sotheby’s. They’re all in cities of the ancient world. Rome, Damascus, Jerusalem, Babylon….ah, Samarkand and Bactria. Athens was the last, I believe.” He pointed to a symbol next to the ornate lettering that looked like an umbrella with two handles, one longer than the other. “That’s an amenta. The Egyptian hieroglyph for the underworld.”
Alec shared a long look with Vivienne. Things started falling into place. Very unpleasantly.
“The pages were only discovered recently,” Crawford explained. “Scholars and collectors are still debating their meaning. But they’re a significant anomaly for a work by Ptolemy because he was so rigorously scientific for his time. There’s no hint that he dabbled in darker arts, or had any interest in religious symbolism.”
“Where were they found?” Vivienne asked.
“The grandson of some Italian duke found them in his library after he died. The provenance can be proven without a doubt. Each page bears a watermark from the printer, Arnold Buckinck. They’ve all been exhaustively verified.”
“Thank you, Mr. Crawford, you’ve been an enormous help,” Alec said abruptly, steering Vivienne back into the main part of the shop.
“But don’t you—”
Crawford’s words cut off as the door slammed behind them. Vivienne and Alec broke into a run.
“Revered Mother, we have to get those bloody pages,” she muttered, skirts bunched up in her fists.
Alec didn’t reply. He was already half a block ahead.
Summersbee’s shop was around the corner on St. Aldate’s Street. Two bored-looking policemen stood outside. They wore the helmets and dark uniforms of the local constabulary.
“Is the owner in?” Alec demanded, as Vivienne skidded up next to him.
“And you’d be?” The first cop eyed them with suspicion and moved to block the doorway.
“Agents with the S.P.R.” Vivienne thrust a card into his hand. When they saw the words “lady” and “marchioness,” both of them knuckled their foreheads and backed down. Alec didn’t like the rigid British class system, but it had its uses sometimes.
“He’s in there,” the second officer said. “Though Mr. Summersbee’s none too pleased to have us here. Says it’s bad for business.”
“So no one else has gone inside?”
“Not since we arrived three hours ago.”
“Good.”
“Expecting trouble?”
“Possibly. Can you get some extra men here?”
The cop nodded and blew his whistle twice. “Shouldn’t be long. Kelly, go in with them. I’ll wait outside.”
“Do you have any men around back?”
“We did, but they were called off an hour ago for a disorderly at a public house.”
“Perhaps Mr. Kelly should take the back door then,” Alec suggested.
Kelly, a bear of a man with the piercing blue eyes and dark hair of the type sometimes called Black Irish, shrugged and stomped into a narrow alleyway leading to the rear of the shop.
Alec and Vivienne went inside. Summersbee’s establishment was much smaller than Crawford’s. Gleaming shelves displayed volumes neatly organized by their subject matter, which, Alec noticed, was decidedly darker than ghost stories and adventure tales. Most of the titles were in Latin or French, a few in German. There were several copies of Mallei Maleficarum, The Hammer of Witches. A primary manifesto of the Inquisition, it had been a bestseller in the 16th century.
Light spilled through the mullioned windows but it didn’t penetrate the rear of the shop, which was bathed in gloom.
“Mr. Summersbee?” Vivienne called. “Hello?”
There was no response. They followed a long runner of worn brown carpet to an archway leading to a second room, also lined with shelves. The low ceilings and dark tones—most of the books were bound in brown and black calfskin—gave Alec the impression of entering a cave.
“He must be in the back,” Vivienne said.
A long hallway led to what looked like a parlor. Halfway down, Alec’s hackles rose. He smelled blood, newly spilled, still warm, earthy and metallic. He stopped in his tracks.
“Sever me from the power, Vivienne,” he said in a low voice. “I’m not safe.”
She laid a hand on his arm. An instant later, something slammed down on their bond. He could still sense her emotions, but the river of power that flowed between them had been dammed as though it never even existed. Alec couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been forcibly severed. The loss made his skin crawl, made him want to howl in fury.
It was what the cuffs had been expressly designed for all those centuries ago: to permit a human to control a daēva. They were no more than glorif
ied choke collars. Vivienne didn’t use hers against him unless he asked her to, but the degradation of it still chafed. Alec bit down hard on his anger and took a steadying breath.
She only did it to save his life. Fire was his Achilles heel. The one element he couldn’t work. No daēva could, even though the wild, untamed energy of fire exerted an almost irresistible pull. If Alec lost control and reached for it, if he even got too close, it would char him to ashes.
And the daemon was a creature of shadow and flame.
“Ready?” Vivienne asked.
Alec nodded grimly. They moved forward. The smell of blood grew stronger, almost overwhelming. He heard small clicking sounds he couldn’t identify, like insect legs. They came from the parlor.
He turned back to Vivienne and saw she already had her knives out, plain but wickedly sharp blades of iron. Alec flicked a catch on his cane. The outer casing fell away, revealing a slender sword.
“Let me go first,” Vivienne said.
Alec didn’t argue.
They found Mr. Summersbee in the parlor. He lay on his back, gasping through a terrible slash in his throat. Some of the furniture had been knocked over, indicating a struggle, but there were no hiding places big enough for a man. Vivienne rushed to the rear door and tried the knob.
“Locked from the inside,” she said. “Windows too.”
“Let me help him,” Alec said. And when Vivienne hesitated: “Just do it!”
Her lips thinned. She didn’t want to risk it, but she could also cut him off again in an instant. The dam vanished. Molten power surged through his veins. Alec dropped to his knees next to the dying man. He knew how to use elemental magic for healing, had done it for Vivienne countless times. He laid a hand on Mr. Summersbee’s chest, felt the feeble heartbeat. If he tried to knit together the gash in his neck, the shock would kill the man, Alec realized immediately. He’d lost too much blood. So Alec took his hand instead, holding it gently. Mr. Summersbee’s glazed eyes locked on his own. The bookseller was elderly, small and frail. He had a strong will, though. Alec could see it though the terror and pain.
Holding the power made Alec feel disconnected from his own emotions, but anger battered at the Nexus, largely at himself. If only they had come here first. If only they had been quicker.
“Where did Clarence go?” Vivienne muttered. “He must be inside somewhere. I’ll check the front again.”
Mr. Summersbee opened his mouth. Nearly gone, Alec thought. He heard Vivienne banging around in the stacks, opening and closing doors, then heading to the front to inform the policeman outside what had happened.
The old man gave a shudder. Summersbee’s eyes fixed on a point past Alec’s shoulder. For a moment, Alec thought he was dead. Then Summersbee dragged his gaze back. Imploring. Urgent. A single drop of blood bloomed on his white shirtfront. Falling from above. Alec turned his head and looked up.
Dr. Clarence clung to the ceiling, fingers and toes wedged into tiny cracks in the mortar. His expression was empty. An inhuman mask. Alec leapt back with a cry of surprise, fumbling for his sword. Clarence dropped down to hands and knees, crouching like an ape. His eye sockets were shadowed, but pinpricks of light gleamed in their depths.
The doctor had changed since Alec last saw him.
It was nothing obvious. If you’d passed him on the street, you might not notice anything amiss. But the fingers poised on the carpet were tipped with filthy black nails that hooked like talons. The skin beneath his jaw appeared rough, like hide. Clarence smiled. How large and white his teeth seemed in the darkness.
Alec’s hand closed around the silver falcon of his sword hilt. Before he could raise it, Clarence sprang past him, smashing through the window. Outside, Kelly shouted something. Then he screamed. Alec clambered over the sill, trying to avoid the shards of broken glass. The policeman rolled on the ground, clutching his face. It didn’t seem a mortal wound and Alec didn’t stop. Vivienne and the second officer were running down the alley from the direction of St. Aldate’s, but Clarence had gone the other way, into the tangle of narrow, snow-slick passageways leading toward Wheatsheaf Yard.
The doctor had no shoes, but it didn’t slow him down. His blurred form was already far ahead. Alec’s lungs swelled to bursting as he recklessly called to air. Clarence’s hair whipped in the sudden headwind and he scuttled like a crab, but quickly regained his footing. He turned a corner. Alec pursued. Crumbling brick flashed past, the sky a thin white ribbon above. There would be hell to pay later for abusing his bad leg, but he wouldn’t let his quarry escape a second time.
The wall slammed into place again as Vivienne cut him off. She knew what he’d just done and didn’t approve. Probably for the best.
Alec burst from the mouth of an alley and realized he was on the High Street, a continuation of Queen Street. Dusk was falling. Shadows deepened in the crevices between the buildings. He paused beneath the yellow glow of a gaslamp. Could Clarence be headed back for Crawford’s page? But no, he could see fresh footprints leading east, the toes oddly elongated, ape-like. They’d melted through two inches of snow, leaving a clear trail.
The handful of people huddled under shop awnings shrank away from the man with wild eyes holding a naked sword. Alec barely registered them. He followed the footprints up High Street. At Oriel Street, they veered toward the gothic spires of University Church of Saint Mary the Virgin. The medieval church sat between two of Oxford’s colleges. Alec could see the neoclassical dome and cupola of the Radcliffe Camera looming behind.
He gulped air and ignored the growing ache in his knee. The trail led to the church entrance on the north side of the street, an ornate porch flanked by serpentine columns and a statue of the Virgin and Child. Alec slipped inside the heavy doors into the nave. Archangels holding shields stared down from stone niches, but sadly, they had failed to smite the unholy intruder. Clarence was nowhere in sight. Alec looked around, his eyes gathering the faint light filtering down from the stained glass windows of the clerestory. A dozen candles flickered on the altar.
“Did a man just come in here?” Alec asked a middle-aged woman dressed in widow’s black who sat in one of the pews.
She didn’t speak, just pointed with wide eyes. Alec padded down the central aisle on his toes, scanning the shadowed archways on either side for any signs of movement. Just past the altar, he saw a single drop of blood. Alec passed through a second chapel and found himself at the base of the tower. A cramped spiral staircase wound upward.
He closed his eyes and listened, daēva senses heightened to an exquisite degree. He heard the whispery patter of snow falling, the gentle creaks of an old building settling under its weight. The drip of beeswax and the rustle of skirts as the woman he had spoken to hurried for the exit to High Street. And the soft slap of bare feet on stone, far above him.
Vivienne would follow. She would track him through the bond as surely as he had tracked Clarence’s trail in the snow. Alec wished she were here now, but he couldn’t wait for her. He clenched his teeth and started to climb. His leg hurt. Badly. And now stairs, lots of them. He trailed a hand on the rough stone-block walls, fighting a wave of vertigo as the spiral grew even tighter.
Up and up the staircase wound, until Alec finally reached the top. Bits of sleet stung his eyes as he emerged onto a narrow walkway enclosed by a waist-high stone wall. Leering gargoyles jutted from the stonework above, poised as if about to take flight. His knee felt on fire.
All of Oxford spread out below. The old row houses of the High Street, the spires and towers of other colleges. The horizon was a white smudge.
Six hundred years this tower had stood here. It had survived wars and plagues and being shot up by Cromwell’s troops. Alec would have liked to pull it down on Clarence’s head but he was severed from the power. All he had was his blade. I’ll have to make good use of it then.
“Daēva.”
The word grated as if spoken through a mouthful of pebbles.
Alec turned. Dr. Clarence st
ood at the place where the walkway curved around to the far side of the tower. He was little more than a dark shape against the night.
“I know what you are,” Alec said, adjusting the grip on his sword. A porcelain-thin layer of ice coated the stone between them. “Daemon.”
Soft laughter. “And I know what you are. I’ve trafficked with your kind before.”
“Who summoned you?”
“No one.” The daemon sounded amused. “I come and go as I please.”
“Well, I’m afraid you can’t stay.”
Alec sensed Vivienne. She tugged at him, like a compass needle spinning toward true north. He knew she’d reached the entrance on High Street. She was afraid, mainly for Alec, but murderously angry too. Hurry. I’m not so proud to think I don’t need help with this one.
Clarence laid a hand on the balustrade. Snow hissed into steam beneath his fingers.
“They called you Achaemenes, didn’t they, slave? And here you are, two thousand years later, still doing their bidding.” He made a tsking sound, like a mildly displeased schoolteacher. “How pitiful. But you don’t know mine, do you? Should I tell you before you die?”
Alec tried to control his shock. He felt suddenly unmoored, as though the rules of a game had been chucked out the window halfway through. It wasn’t possible. And yet somehow it was.
This thing knows my real name. Only three people in the world—Vivienne, Cyrus and Cassandane—remember it and they would never tell a soul. What does that mean?
Clarence watched his reaction with malignant delight. “I’m old too. Older than you, daēva. By several orders of magnitude.” He cocked his head. “Come closer. I want to see your face.”
Alec drew a steadying breath. Don’t let him bait you. Nor touch you either.
“Give me the maps,” he said. “They’re no use to you anyway. The Greater Gates are locked and shall never be opened again.”
Dr. Clarence took a step closer. The blizzard howled around them. Alec felt the void to his left beyond the wall, a black abyss that dropped at least a hundred feet to the paving stones below.