Sandie gave a disbelieving laugh. ‘How is that possible? That tapestry has hung in the Chamber of the Council of Guardians for centuries.’
‘Henrietta believes the figure is Malcolm, whether that’s possible or not,’ said Vaughn. ‘In her mind, Malcolm has changed history, which has changed the story of the tapestry.’
‘But why would she steal it?’ Simon asked.
‘This is only a guess,’ said Vaughn, ‘but I think that when she was waiting for her meeting with Sir Charles in the Council Chamber, she saw the tapestry alter in some way. Maybe the face under the cowl became visible. Maybe the whole battle scene changed. She didn’t want anyone else to see what had taken place, so she took the tapestry. There’s your motivation.’
Simon rubbed his hands over his face. ‘If Malcolm takes control of Hollow Earth, he will reset the Dark Ages. The monsters of old will return. This world has enough monsters of its own. It doesn’t need any more.’
‘We will have no way of knowing whether Malcolm has succeeded in unlocking the beasts until it happens,’ said Vaughn. ‘We’ll simply wake up in a world we no longer recognize.’
‘If that happens,’ signed Zach to his dad, ‘what will become us? Will we even remember that things were once different?’
‘I wouldn’t think so. But it’s likely that at the very least, Animare would be exposed to the public,’ said Simon. ‘Because they may be the only ones with the power to battle whatever is released upon the earth.’
An eerie light flooded the kitchen.
‘What the—’ began Simon, startled.
Vaughn was already out of his chair and dashing through the French doors. The others followed, running down the wide back lawn towards the jetty and the bay, staring in disbelief at Era Mina across the water.
Thick bands of light were spiralling round the peak of the small island. Inside each of the rings could be seen a series of translucent orbs, like tiny moons. And inside each of the orbs was a twitching, writhing, scratching, screaming beast.
These were not holograms projected from somewhere on Era Mina. These were real animations. Em recognized a griffin, a gorgon and hellhounds spinning next to a basilisk, a wraith and a monstrous kraken.
The rings looked like an immense gyroscope, the orbs rotating faster and faster on their own axes. They were creating a chilling wind, flecking white caps on the bay until Em could no longer distinguish any single creature inside the orbs.
‘It looks like Era Mina is going to be pulled right out of the water!’ she gasped.
‘Is this it?’ Sandie asked breathlessly. ‘Are we too late?’
As if someone switched off gravity, the bands suddenly slowed their rotation and fell away, the orbs dropping back into the island like falling stars.
‘What the hell just happened, Renard?’ Vaughn demanded.
‘I have never seen anything like it before,’ said Renard, sounding shocked. ‘But I have heard of it. For as long as The Book of Beasts remains incomplete, the island and the creatures it protects is unstable. When the protectors of Hollow Earth are in mortal danger, the island reacts. Shifts. Threatens to break apart.’
Simon looked ashen-faced. ‘I think it’s safe to say that Jeannie is in trouble.’
And not just Jeannie, Em thought numbly. Matt as well.
‘How did we get here?’ she heard her mother sob against Vaughn’s jacket. ‘How did the promise of our future become such a curse? Jeannie… and Matt! How can he fight his dad by himself? He’s thirteen years old!’
Renard and Simon slowly made their way back up the garden to the kitchen as Vaughn murmured soothing words and stroked Sandie’s hair. She looked up at Vaughn, tears streaking her cheeks.
‘Vaughn, I regret with all my heart that the children and I didn’t come to you right away when we arrived in London…’
Catching Em’s eye, Sandie faltered to a guilty halt. Em could feel her mother’s anguish. It was almost unbearable.
‘It’s OK, Mum,’ Em said as normally as she could. ‘I think about it all the time. What if you’d married Vaughn when we were little? Would any of this have happened?’
Vaughn pulled Em next to him and her mum, embracing them both.
‘When we bring Matt and Jeannie home,’ he said, ‘we can make up for the lost time together.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Fourteen Years Earlier
Sitting at his desk in the Abbey, Vaughn read the memo carefully.
‘Anything good?’ asked Malcolm, lolling in the doorway.
Vaughn looked up. ‘Does the name Wyeth Corcoran mean anything to you?’
Malcolm twirled a pencil between his fingers. ‘Wyeth Corcoran… the Animare illustrator? He does kids’ books, something like that.’
Vaughn nodded. He studied the memo again. ‘He died this morning.’
‘Too bad.’
Malcolm sounded uninterested, still flipping his pencil between his fingers, as if Wyeth Corcorcan’s death was the least remarkable thing he had heard all day. Malcolm Calder was a brilliant Guardian, and Vaughn knew he was lucky to have him as his partner, but empathy had never been Malcolm’s strong suit. It was a failing in someone who dealt in emotions.
‘What does his death have to do with Orion?’ Malcolm finally asked.
‘Wyeth Corcoran left a death animation.’
Death animations occurred only if an Animare died while in the process of creating art, a final surge of energy at the moment of their last breath. Despite the trouble death animations sometimes caused for those who discovered them, Vaughn appreciated their raw power and stark beauty. Unlike most animations, they often lingered after the art bringing them to life was destroyed. Corcoran’s death animation sounded like it might be hanging about.
At last, a spark of interest showed in Malcolm’s blue eyes. ‘Unusual, but not unheard of. Do they need us to eliminate it?’
Vaughn nodded. ‘Alice Macnair, Corcoran’s Guardian, tried to destroy it, but she’s too old and grief-stricken at the loss of Wyeth and it’s beyond her.’
‘No one else has seen it?’ Malcolm checked.
‘If they have, I’m sure Alice followed protocol and managed to convince them it was a ghost.’ Vaughn checked the memo again. ‘Wyeth lived on the Isle of Arran. We’ve got the assignment to dispatch the animation because we’re the closest agents in the vicinity. Let’s go.’
They made the short drive south along the Ayrshire coast to Ardrossan, where they picked up the car-ferry across the Firth of Clyde to Arran. The day was sunny but cool for July, a brisk north wind keeping their collars up and their heads down.
From the upper deck Vaughn watched the peak of Goat Fell rise to greet them. Midway across the Firth, Malcolm leaned close.
‘I have news.’
Vaughn wasn’t sure he liked the smile on his Guardian’s face. ‘Tell,’ he said warily.
‘Sandie’s pregnant.’
Vaughn felt sick. He was pretty sure it had nothing to do with the rough motion of the boat.
‘You’re not serious,’ he said at last. ‘Malcolm, do you have any idea how many Rules you’ve just broken? A Guardian and an Animare can’t have kids! You know that.’
Malcolm sighed. ‘You know your trouble? You worry too much.’
Vaughn couldn’t believe how calm Malcolm was. ‘The combination of Animare and Guardian powers in children is forbidden, and with good reason! What were you thinking?’
Malcolm laughed and slapped Vaughn’s back. ‘Thinking didn’t really come into it.’
Vaughn pulled away. ‘This isn’t a joke, Malcolm. You and Sandie will be ostracized. Your child will be persecuted. You’re a stupid reckless fool and now your selfishness, your narcissism, your blatant disregard for the Council’s authority has put Sandie’s future in jeopardy and I—’
‘I’m a fool?’ interrupted Malcolm. ‘What about you? You’ve been pining for Sandie since university, and you never acted on your feelings. Not once.’
Vaughn
bit his tongue and turned into the wind, away from this man that he was meant to be as close to as any two people could be. Not for the first time, he wished he’d spoken up about Malcolm and Sandie’s forbidden relationship from the start, instead of promising Malcolm that he would keep it a secret. Since university, their bond as Animare and Guardian had been festering with conflict, not simply from Vaughn’s jealousy over Malcolm and Sandie’s relationship, but also from Malcolm’s brooding envy of Vaughn’s abilities as an Animare – especially when Vaughn refused to break or bend any of the Rules.
Sea spray stung Vaughn’s eyes. He wiped his tears with his sleeve.
Resting his forearms on the rail, Malcolm stared across at Arran’s mountainous terrain. ‘You’re worse than a fool, V,’ he said. ‘You’re a romantic with a code far too chivalrous for your own good. You’d have been happier in a world where we would joust for our fair maiden’s hand.’
‘Instead of a world where you use your… your…’ Vaughn exhaled slowly, letting the wind carry his bitterness and the rest of his words.
‘Say it!’ said Malcolm, stabbing the air in front of Vaughn’s chest. ‘Your suspicions are choking you. I can feel them.’
Vaughn glared at Malcolm in his Ramones T-shirt and his army surplus jacket, his hair wild and unkempt, looking every inch the struggling rock star. The men were physically matched in height, but Vaughn had muscle on Malcolm, who was rake-thin.
Vaughn refused to give Malcolm the satisfaction of a brawl. He shoved past his Guardian and took the narrow metal steps down to the main deck two at a time.
‘Say it,’ Malcolm yelled after him. ‘You think I inspirited Sandie! That I’m some kind of mad Merlin! You can’t stand it that she simply fell in love with me!’
Neither man spoke again until they pulled off Arran’s beach road on to a grassy verge in front of Wyeth Corcoran’s renovated eighteenth-century gatehouse.
‘I’ve heard about this place,’ said Malcolm as if nothing at all had happened on the ferry. ‘Wyeth gutted it to make it accessible for his wheelchair. Won some awards.’
The tall two-storey structure had once been the gatehouse to Lochranza Castle, whose ruins sat directly across a watery inlet that, centuries ago, had been a natural moat. Arched windows stretched from the first floor to the turreted roof, reflecting the midday sun off the Firth and bathing everything in a silvery sheen, including a jagged rock with a seal basking in the warmth.
A frail but chipper woman, gripping a cane to steady herself against the buffeting wind, was waiting for them at the gate.
Alice Macnair’s eyes were red and watery. ‘The animation’s inside,’ she said, twisting her cane between her hands. ‘I managed to contain it in Wyeth’s study. I could nae take care of it on my own, son. These legs aren’t what they used to be. And I couldn’t chance that I’d fail. It would be quite a shock for auld Doc Ernst when he shows up tae find me dead too.’
Malcolm sauntered towards the front door ahead of Vaughn and Alice, the air filled with the sickly sweet perfume from the hedgerows of pink roses bordering the path. Vaughn’s stomach pitched again. If he and Malcolm had any chance of surviving as a team, they had to get through this. Rage assailed him once more as he thought of the impossible position Malcolm had put Sandie in.
Walking into the gatehouse was like stepping into the pages of a sword-and-sorcery picture book. The walls were a solid mural, depicting scenes from classic stories, one bleeding in to the other; Sir Walter Scott’s Lady Rowena on her tournament thrown next to Prince Caspian on a dressage horse galloping towards the Lady of the Lake offering the sword to King Arthur. The most spectacular part of the mural showed King Richard the Lionheart, broadsword drawn, fighting a double-winged dragon whose tail Wyeth had painted around the banister that climbed the room beside the specially constructed wheelchair ramp to the first-floor balcony, creating the illusion that the beast had sprung from the balcony itself. Windows flooded the space with light that spilled on to the images and made them even more realistic.
Vaughn had helped Alice to a chair near the galley kitchen when a high-pitched bloodcurdling scream shook the entire house. The sound of a mallet on thick wood followed. Thump! Thump! Thump! And then the scream began again, rising to a screeching crescendo before it stopped, leaving the thumping to fill the barbed silence once more.
‘That’s Wyeth’s bedroom,’ said Alice, nodding at the ground-level door beside the kitchen. ‘I’ve trapped the animation in there with him.’
The screeching and the thumping began for a third time.
Malcolm looked at Vaughn. ‘Let’s get this done before my ears explode.’
The screaming grew even louder, a squawking, tortured screech. The heavy thuds had the rhythm of large uneven footsteps.
As the men cautiously approached the door, a chill of briny air swirled through the lock, seeping around the wooden edges like a damp fog. A cold hand touched Vaughn’s as he prepared to turn the handle. He jumped.
Alice was standing next to him. ‘Here,’ she said, handing him a birdcage the size of a suitcase. ‘I’d like to keep part of it a while longer, if I may.’
‘What exactly was the old man working on when he died?’ asked Malcolm warily.
‘A pop-up edition of Treasure Island.’
TWENTY-FIVE
Dispatching the death animation didn’t take long. Vaughn was swabbing up the puddles of watercolours on the floor of the bedroom when Alice showed the doctor and the undertakers into the room to deal with the old man’s body.
‘A fine way to go, working on a picture like this,’ said the doctor, admiring the image of Long John Silver and his rambunctious parrot on Wyeth Corcoran’s easel. ‘It’s what he would have wanted.’
‘Thank you for your help,’ said Alice, looking gratefully at Vaughn as the undertakers started to prepare the old man’s body. ‘Have you far to go home?’
‘Just across the Firth,’ Vaughn replied. ‘We’ll wait for you until Wyeth leaves. Won’t we, Malcolm?’
Malcolm was prowling around the room, turning over papers, poking inside drawers, as if neither Alice Macnair nor Vaughn were in the room. Wyeth Corcoran’s shelves were as choked with collectibles as his walls were with art. What wasn’t part of a mural was hanging from picture rails, or leaning against shelves, beside furniture, even in the spaces between books on the bookshelves. Unframed canvases competed with exquisitely framed ones for open space. Vaughn saw the works of minor Scottish artists, a few masters and other pieces he recognized as Wyeth Corcoran’s most famous book covers.
‘Bit of a mess this, isn’t it?’ Malcolm remarked, looking around.
The events of the day were taking their toll on the elderly Guardian. Her hands trembled when she accepted a ginger snap from Vaughn, who had found a tin in the kitchen. ‘Wyeth collected anything wi’ a connection to the Western Isles,’ she said stiffly. ‘He has left most of this collection in his will to the Scottish National Gallery. A few favourites he’s given to me.’
Vaughn noticed that she kept her eyes on Malcolm, who had shifted his attention to an open jewellery box beside a locked display cabinet that hung beneath the painted curve of dragon’s belly on the wall.
The old Guardian stiffened in her seat as Malcolm peered closer into the cabinet.
‘This is an interesting artefact,’ said Malcolm conversationally. He tapped the glass, pointing at a dull golden medallion within. ‘What’s its provenance, Alice?’
‘I believe it belonged to Wyeth’s sister,’ answered Alice in guarded tones.
Malcolm’s blue eyes were calculating. ‘You’ve really no further information?’
Alice jumped to her feet as the undertakers carried the coffin from the bedroom on their broad shoulders, knocking her cup and saucer to the floor. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she said, as if her clumsiness startled her.
Vaughn moved to help her, but she waved him away and kneeled down to pick up the pieces. So instead he followed the coffin outside, helped lif
t it on to the back of the hearse, and waited until he saw it safely on its way along the beach road before he stepped back inside.
The main room was empty. The glass case was unlocked. No Alice. No Malcolm.
A horrible scream filled the vast room, full of anguish and most certainly human. Vaughn looked up in shock at the balcony. Alice was splayed on the floor with Malcolm looming over her, his hands gripping her shoulders.
Vaughn sprinted up the ramp, barrelling into Malcolm. The impact sent Malcolm flying backwards, crashing through the wooden rails and out over the edge of the balcony. Reacting in an instant, Malcolm grabbed at the carpet, stopping his fall but leaving him dangling dangerously high above the stone floor.
‘Help!’ he shouted, struggling. ‘Vaughn, get me up!’
Ignoring Malcolm’s cries, Vaughn kneeled next to Alice and checked her pulse. It was strong, but one of her ears was bleeding, the blood trickling down her pale neck.
On the other side of the broken rail Malcolm was trying to haul himself up, swinging his legs like a pendulum. His momentum caused the carpet to tear from its mooring, dropping him further. Vaughn stomped on the runner, slowing Malcolm’s descent.
‘No. No,’ Alice groaned.
Vaughn realized with disgust that Malcolm had inspirited the old Guardian to the point of suffering. Enraged, he took his foot off the runner again. The carpet slipped further. Malcolm howled.
‘What did you do to her?’ demanded Vaughn, stepping back on to the carpet.
‘She was lying to me about that medallion!’ Malcolm’s exertion was reddening his face as he swung, frantically trying to keep a grip. ‘How was I to know how frail her mind was?’
‘By looking at her!’ Vaughn roared.
The carpet gave up, sliding away completely from under Vaughn’s foot. For a beat Malcolm bicycled in the air, grasping at the shifting rug for traction. Vaughn shot out his arm and grabbed Malcolm’s hand. Wordlessly, he dragged his Guardian’s upper body on to the balcony, leaving him to scramble up the rest of the way on his own.
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