The Deadly Omens

by Jennifer Bell

  Seb thrashed his drumsticks angrily in the direction of the window. Ivy dropped to the floor as glass shattered around her. But Seb’s aim must have been slightly off, because several floorboards splintered too, leaving a hole in the ground. Amid all the chaos Ivy noticed that the tunnel leading to the Hexroom had disappeared—there was only earth and concrete foundations below now.

  “Everyone—get to the window!” Valian shouted. He was holding what looked like a rubber stamp in his hand, wooden with a brass handle. “I’m about to give the gravellers a whole lot more targets.”

  Sand showered Ivy’s face as a graveller stomped at her head. With a yelp, she rolled aside and scrambled to her feet. “What the—?” she spluttered. The shop was unexpectedly crammed with clones of themselves: the figures looked like exact replicas of Ivy, Seb and Valian, only all facing in different directions. Ivy raised her arm; her mimics copied the movement.

  The graveller pursuing Ivy dithered, turning its boulder-head left and right. It seemed confused, and Ivy saw her opportunity to escape. She hopped over a broken shelf, sidestepping the graveller’s reach, and leaped through the empty window frame. Spray from the waterfall coated her face as she sprinted across the shingles toward the water. She checked over her shoulder. Seb and Valian were following, kicking up stones as they ran. A graveller thundered out of the Old Seafarer’s Place in pursuit, roaring and beating its chest.

  We need a way to escape, she communicated to Scratch urgently.

  He vibrated. Soap dish beings here still.

  Yes—good idea! She jabbed a hand into her satchel and grabbed the soap dish, tickling Scratch in thanks. Skidding to a halt at the lake’s edge, she placed the dish in the froth, whereupon it instantly expanded to the size of a paddleboat. “Er—get in!” she urged Seb and Valian.

  “That gravel guy is still coming,” Seb warned as they all jumped aboard. With a foot against the shore, Valian kicked off. A hood of bubbles sealed them in as their silver boat glided across the water. Ivy just caught sight of a graveller hopping up and down angrily on the shore before the soap dish finally submerged.

  “Everyone OK?” Valian asked, brushing sand from his leather jacket.

  Ivy peeled back her gloves. The heels of her hands stung where she’d grazed them, but they weren’t badly bleeding.

  “Still alive…,” Seb grumbled, “…just.”

  The same robotic voice as before echoed around the vessel: “Welcome aboard this aqua-transport vessel number 2895. What is your desired destination?”

  “Forward & Rife’s auction house,” Valian replied, adding, “We can get feathers near there and check whether Judy’s seen Mr. Rife and planted that cufflink.”

  They rocked backward as the dish suddenly accelerated through the water. Outside, Ivy could see foam and the occasional flash of silver as they sailed by Breath Falls. The vessel shuddered as it entered a large pipe, and everything went black outside. After a moment there was a loud squealing noise, like a car breaking, and from out of nowhere bubbles surged up Ivy’s nose, making her snort and shut her eyelids. “What’s happening?” she gulped.

  “Hold on!” Valian cried.

  Something cold and heavy shoved against Ivy’s side and, when she opened her eyes again, she found herself slumped under a wide stone arch. Immediately ahead of her, a fountain spurted, set inside a small circular garden next to a busy road. The roar of a huge city filled the cold air. Next to her Valian was rubbing his ribs as he sat up; Seb appeared opposite from under a pile of leaves.

  “This isn’t Forward & Rife’s,” Seb mumbled, stating the obvious.

  “No,” Ivy said, staring at the skyline. “I think we’re in New York.”

  The late-afternoon sky was gray and getting darker. Ivy noticed clouds swirling around as if they were sizing each other up before a fight. She trod carefully between the trimmed yew hedges surrounding the fountain. Something silver glinted between the leaves. Ivy reached down and picked up the dolphin-handled soap dish and examined it.

  “Anything?” Valian asked.

  “Yes—there’s a crack in one side. It must have gotten damaged when we were escaping the gravellers.”

  “That explains why we’ve ended up here,” he told her. “Broken soap dishes will throw you out at random points on your journey, wherever the nearest water outlet is.”

  Seb removed his plastic poncho and brushed off the wet leaves that had stuck to his jeans. “So what do we do now? If we want to contact Johnny Hands, we have to get back to Nubrook.”

  “I know of one entrance beneath a disused subway platform,” Valian said, collecting all three of their ponchos and stuffing them in a nearby recycling bin. “We just need to navigate our way to the nearest subway station. We’ll be able to access the disused platform once we’re underground.”

  Seb reached for his phone. “I’ll find us a route,” he offered. “At least we already know where we’re starting from—” He pointed behind them. Flanking the stone arch were steps leading up to the veranda of an impressive building with a sloping red roof. Engraved across the balustrade in capital letters were the words:

  THE AMERICAN MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY

  FOUNDED 1869

  For the briefest of moments, Ivy wondered what it would feel like simply to be in New York on holiday. She’d love to explore the museum and see the city’s other sights, just as a normal tourist.

  “The nearest subway station is on the corner of Eighty-First Street and Central Park West,” Seb said, tapping at the screen. “It’s a five-minute walk from here. Follow me.”

  The noise of a crowd greeted them as they headed onto Seventy-Seventh Street. People crammed the pavements, laughing and pointing: the road was filled with a line of giant inflatables, secured under nets in preparation for the Thanksgiving parade the next day. As the road was closed in the other direction, they kept the museum building on their right and ventured along Columbus Avenue. “I’m glad we dressed warm,” Ivy commented, watching her breath condense in the frosty air. “It’s freezing up here.”

  “Minus two Celsius, according to my weather app,” Seb told her. “Apparently, Storm Sarah is due to hit the city today. New Yorkers have been advised to stay inside.”

  “You mean the same Storm Sarah that was in London yesterday?” Ivy wasn’t a meteorologist, but it seemed impossible that a storm could travel as quickly as that across the Atlantic Ocean and still be as powerful.

  “Yeah,” Seb said. “They’re calling it a phenomenon.”

  Ivy remembered noticing the similarities between Storm Sarah’s path across Europe and Alexander Brewster’s crime trail. She hadn’t given it any thought since first spotting it back at the Tidemongers’ base, but now she considered whether the two might be connected. Could Alexander Brewster somehow be controlling the storm? But before she had time to share her theory with Seb and Valian, she caught the murmur of a sinister voice in her ear. It was chanting, over and over.

  …The sun will rise, the night is done, what is lost will be won.

  The sun will rise, the night is done, what is lost will be won….

  Her skin prickled as she realized it belonged to the dead creature who had been following them the day before in Nubrook. She shook her head clear and shuffled closer to Seb and Valian. “We need to get out of here,” she said simply. “Now.”

  Straightaway, Valian looked alert. “What’s wrong?”

  Ivy scanned the road. A tall man in a black suit and bowler hat was walking steadily through the parade floats, an ebony cane swinging in his left hand. He was too far away for Ivy to see him clearly, but his face was pale with sharp cheekbones and a dark mustache. Nobody seemed to be paying him any attention; perhaps the spectators thought he was part of the show. “A strange race of the dead was tailing us yesterday,” she said. “Scratch warned me away from it. It’s here again now. We’ve got to move.”

  It started to rain as they turned the corner and hurried down Eighty-First Street toward the subway
station. People opened umbrellas, making it more difficult to dodge between them. Ivy sensed the dead creature behind, the voice of its broken soul growing louder. “It’s coming in this direction!” she cried.

  “We’ve got to lead it away from all these commoners,” Valian decided. “Central Park’s emptying, so let’s turn off into there.”

  Crossing the road, they dashed toward one of the entrances of the park. New Yorkers, seeking shelter, darted past them in the opposite direction. Inside the park, a few joggers bobbed by, some with dogs leashed to their belts scampering beside them. Men and women in business suits paced along, the steam rising from their coffee cups.

  Seb, his cheeks flushed from hurrying, said accusingly, “Why didn’t you tell us about this dead creature before?”

  “Because it vanished as soon as some underguard appeared,” Ivy replied. She looked over her shoulder and saw their dark-suited pursuer emerge onto the puddled path, fifty paces behind them. She couldn’t understand how he was so close when he was only walking. He stopped and tapped his cane twice on the ground. As she watched, his nose extended into a long snout, his skin grew coal-black fur and he sprouted pointed ears and a tail. His suit disappeared completely as he dropped to all fours.

  “OK, now he looks like a grim-wolf,” Valian said. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know,” Ivy admitted, “but he’ll be able to chase us even faster now. Run!” She swung her satchel around to her back as they broke into a sprint. Her arms pumped by her sides, her feet pounded the wet concrete. Valian and Seb raced ahead.

  When Ivy looked next, the grim-wolf was no more and, in its place, stood what looked like yet another race of the dead. This one had a bulky body dripping with black slime and a head featuring two hollows for eyes. Ivy shuddered as it fixed its gaze on her and grinned, flashing a mouth of shark-like teeth.

  A selkie. Ivy had escaped one before…just.

  With a loud slurp, the selkie dived into a puddle and disappeared. Ivy had a horrible feeling she knew what was coming next. “You two—wait!” she yelled, skidding to a halt. Seb and Valian came to a standstill just in time as the sludge-covered body of the selkie rose from the water on the path ahead. Rather than being the color of seaweed, its hairy scales were charcoal black. An acrid whiff of chemicals hit Ivy in the face, making her gag.

  “Don’t move,” the selkie warned, in a voice so clear and deep it made Ivy’s ribs shake. Selkies normally sounded as if they were speaking underwater; whatever race of the dead this one was, it was nothing like any she’d encountered before. Lifting a slimy finger, the creature pointed to a trail of sludge encircling them on the pavement. Valian and Seb stumbled back as the substance fizzed and a wall of mist rose out of it, obscuring Central Park. The tarmac beneath frothed like harsh chemicals reacting.

  “Acid rain selkies are by far the most useful breed to transform into,” the selkie remarked in the same sonorous tone. “Remain within the ring of acid, and we may all talk without any of you getting burned.”

  They all took a nervous step toward the center. Ivy projected her senses inside Scratch. Do you know what race of the dead this is? I know it looks like a selkie now, but it was a grim-wolf before.

  Nothings ideas, Scratch replied shakily. Farrow knowings might; Scratch can readings Guide.

  It took Ivy a moment to realize what Scratch meant. Farrow’s Guide to Nubrook was still in her satchel; it contained an index of the dead. Ivy wasn’t sure how Scratch could read it inside her bag. Then again, Scratch not having a brain or eyes, she wasn’t sure how he read it at all.

  Seb angled his body defensively, slipping the ends of his drumsticks out from his sleeves. “What do you want with us?” he growled.

  “Only to become more acquainted,” the creature said charmingly. “We are family, after all.”

  Family? Ivy racked her brains and came up with two names: Silas Wrench and Norton Wrench—Granma Sylvie’s two missing brothers. They’d both disappeared after the Great Battle of Twelfth Night. She hesitated. “Are you…one of our great-uncles?”

  The creature laughed, spilling drool from its lips. “Guess again.”

  She felt her satchel vibrate against her leg.

  Has findings Scratch. He read from Farrow’s Guide:

  “Augrits are the only creatures able to transform into any race of the dead at will, allowing them to take advantage of their respective strengths. Although immensely powerful, they have a major weakness—they draw their power from natural light and are therefore only able to operate aboveground. Many scholars argue about their existence, claiming that it would be easier to find a fresh-smelling selkie than it would a real Augrit….”

  “It is disappointing that you are having trouble working it out,” the selkie muttered. “I had hoped you’d inherited my intelligence.”

  Ivy ignored him, trying to analyze the information from Farrow’s Guide. If this creature was powered by natural light, they might be able to escape it if they could get underground. Squinting through the veil of acid smoke, she scanned the park. They hadn’t ventured in too far; she could still make out the road. The subway station they’d been heading toward couldn’t be that much farther.

  “Why don’t you try the generation above?” the selkie suggested. “That should narrow it down.”

  Ivy went cold. There was only one person he could be: “Octavius Wrench?” she gasped. “But—you were killed in 1969!”

  “Indeed I was,” Octavius Wrench agreed, with a hint of amusement. “And here I am. You could say that I’ve enjoyed the ultimate last laugh: the underguards I fought in the Great Battle thought they’d vanquished me, when in actual fact they had only made me stronger. It was a perfectly executed plan with a satisfying conclusion.”

  Seb rocked on the spot. Ivy could see him piecing together the information: this monster was their great-grandfather. “But—you died in a shower of uncommon bolts during the battle,” he said, recalling what he and Ivy had learned last winter. “It was an accident.”

  “I can see you lack the family imagination,” Octavius Wrench muttered. “Shame. Listen to me: my death was conceived in advance. With all the forbidden knowledge the Dirge have…collected over the years, effecting my transformation into my chosen race of the dead was easy: I simply had to die by revealing my darkest secret…”

  “…that you’re Blackclaw,” Ivy finished, “the leader of the Dirge.” She clenched her jaw, wishing she’d considered before now the possibility that their great-grandfather had never become Departed. She looked over at Valian; his hands were curled into fists, his expression seething.

  “Do you know why members of the Dirge are named after poisons?” Octavius Wrench asked them, slithering forward. “In the natural world, certain plants are poisonous to stop creatures from eating them. Animals with the intelligence to identify plants that are dangerous survive; animals that are weak or stupid will be killed. The Dirge exist to protect the uncommon world from weakness and stupidity. People like your friend Mr. Punch, or the Tidemongers I saw you visiting yesterday, are weak—they lack vision.” He bared his jagged teeth. “Muckers are the same. Their numbers need to be controlled.”

  Ivy stiffened. “Muckers” was a nasty term for commoners.

  “Murderer!” Valian charged forward, reaching for something in his inside pocket, but Octavius Wrench was too fast. His gloopy selkie body dissolved into a sheet of black powder, which swooped closer. Valian dropped to his knees, gasping for air.

  Seb ran forward to help him.

  “Wait—he’s a wraithmoth!” Ivy warned, recognizing the flakes of skin and hair within Octavius Wrench’s new dusty form. Wraithmoths were toxic up close.

  Valian’s skin was turning blue-purple; his eyes rolled back inside their sockets. Seb, protecting his mouth with his arm, shuffled toward his friend, trying to reach him. “He’s choking!” he cried.

  The dust shivered as Octavius Wrench spoke. “If only you could see the truth as I do: uncommoners
shouldn’t scurry around underground like rats, as if we’ve got something to be ashamed of. There is no need to hide from muckers—we are their superiors.”

  Valian gasped for air. Ivy squealed: “Stop it!”

  “It is a pity that neither of you have the insight to join me,” Octavius Wrench continued, “I do so like to keep the Dirge in the family.” He sighed. “Still, New Dawn is coming, whether you like it or not.”

  “We know you’re planning to attack all those undermarts, but you won’t win!” Ivy shouted. “Everyone will stop you.”

  “Attacking undermarts?” Octavius Wrench sneered. “Oh, our ambitions are far greater than that. New Dawn will change the future of the entire planet, not just the uncommon world. Now, your friend’s brain will starve of oxygen in moments unless you answer me this: where is Amos Stirling’s journal?”

  Ivy’s fingers twitched toward her satchel, but she remained calm. “We don’t know! Let Valian go.”

  “You’re lying,” Octavius Wrench snarled. “I was reading your mind as a selkie: you’ve seen the journal recently. Sources assure me that Mr. Punch doesn’t have it anymore, and without the instructions inside it, I cannot wield the sword.”

  The sword?

  Ivy’s mouth went dry. Octavius Wrench could mean only one thing. “That’s what you’ve been looking for—the Sword of Wills?”

  “Of course,” Octavius Wrench answered. “Only with that blade’s unique powers can I forge a new path for this planet. The sword will be used to complete a series of specific tasks. Ah, but I understand your confusion.” His sheet-like body crinkled, pointing in Seb’s direction. “You are far more concerned with another of the great five, aren’t you? The Sands of Change…”

  Seb’s face flashed with fear. “We don’t know what you’re talking about!”