by John
Em squeezed her eyes shut, unwilling to revisit the flyblown corpse, as Matt guided her back through the shop. The sudden sense of her brother’s surprise and relief made her open them again.
Everything was immaculate. Mary Poppins had clearly been working overtime. Not a bluebottle or a desiccated body in sight.
43.
EXIT THE BUILDING
‘The Moor of Cadiz,’ said Mingus Franklin.
They had stopped in front of a painting the size and shape of a front door. In the painting, the Moor was standing under a set of ornate arched columns on a flight of sandy stone steps with what looked like a mosque or a palace behind him, the perspective of the architecture calling attention to his height and build. Large baskets filled with fruit, vegetables and spices sat in a row on the step beneath him, symbols of his great wealth.
For Rémy, the man himself was a lot more impressive than his fruit and veg. His layers of white robes were cinched at his waist by a broad leather belt studded with silver, two swords sheathed at his sides. Criss-crossing his chest were two more belts with a variety of other knives of varying shapes and sizes tucked beneath them. He was wearing a yellow turban whose tail wrapped across his mouth and neck, leaving only his dark, penetrating eyes visible. A small sign beside the painting read: ‘On loan from the Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.’
‘He looks like a bad-ass,’ said Rémy in awe.
‘Little is known about him except that he was wealthy, perhaps the last Caliph to remain in Grenada. We can see he was a patron of the arts, well educated. He loved music.’
‘How do you know?’ The curator pointed out a beautiful lute propped up against one of the arches in the painting.
‘The painting tells us quite a lot,’ Mingus went on. ‘It’s clear from the fruits and spices by his feet that he traded widely with Asia and Europe. As a well-educated man, he will have spoken multiple languages. The term “Renaissance Man” would be just about perfect to describe him.’
Under heavy glass in a case next to the painting sat two rows of swords and knives sitting on velvet pads. Rémy stared. They matched the weapons in the portrait.
‘Those were found in the ruins of a palace near Seville, during an archaeological dig in the sixties,’ explained the curator. ‘We know they belonged to him because of the crest.’
Rémy’s stomach flipped as the taste of his egg sandwiches made a return because the design on the tip of the knife blades in both the case and the portrait matched the mark on the back of his neck.
‘It’s an unusual crest,’ Rémy managed to say. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘The Moor was an unusual man. He was one of the few Caliphs who remained after the Moors were expelled from Spain in 1492. He fought valiantly for his people and later was recognized by Queen Isabella as a “true Spaniard”. And then there was his great personal tragedy: the loss of his only son.’
‘His son died?’
‘We have a letter dated from the early sixteenth century that tells us the Moor’s son just disappeared one day. Was never seen again. According to this account, the Moor was never the same man again. He secluded himself from the world. We believe the Moor left Spain not long after, a broken man, never to return.’
Words in Latin were lettered in gold across the bottom of the frame. Rémy’s pulse raced as he read them: Musica vivificat mortuos. ‘Music gives life to the dead.’ He knew this phrase. The words were scribbled in his mother’s journal, over and over again, page after page.
Something made Rémy look up. A guard was staring at him, putting his radio to his mouth.
Instinct kicked in. Rémy broke into a sprint, away from the startled curator, hurling himself through the emergency exit as the alarms started screaming. The same polite recording voice of earlier that morning began to speak.
‘Please exit the building. Do not use the lifts. Do not panic. Please exit the building.’
44.
MAKING TRACKS
Matt stayed in the shadows of the buildings as they walked along St Martin’s Lane towards the church, shades firmly on his nose. Then, without any warning, he stopped and sat on a small wall in front of a boutique selling hats. He took out his phone and started texting feverishly.
Em frowned. ‘You never text anyone.’
I’m not texting. Sit next to me and act interested.
That’ll be a stretch.
Em sat down and pretended Matt’s phone was the most interesting thing in London, listening carefully to her brother’s voice in her head.
Don’t look, but we’re being followed.
Em looked.
I said DON’T look. You are such a tool!
Sorry. You mean that girl over by Starbucks?
Matt gave slight nod. She’s been on us since we left the shop.
Now that Matt had pointed it out, Em could feel the girl’s gaze like someone pressing fingers into her temples.
Do you think she’s one of the bad guys?
Matt lifted his shades. His kaleidoscopic eyes were troubled. I don’t know.
Em glanced at the girl again – only to see her hurrying away.
Shit, she knows she’s been seen.
Follow her!
Em was already on her feet, close behind Matt.
She’s heading for the Tube.
They ducked down the stairs and into the brightly lit tunnel beneath the Strand, pushing through the turnstiles, their eyes trained on the girl as she hurried ahead of them. They ran down the escalators, through more tunnels – on to a platform where a train stood waiting.
‘Faster!’ Matt ordered, breaking into a sprint. ‘I want to ask her a few questions.’
‘I’m going as fast as I can!’ Em gasped.
The twins threw themselves through the closing doors of the carriage, one car away from the girl. Every now and then, the girl glanced in their direction, then looked back. Em had the sudden impression that she wanted them to follow her.
Westminster, St James’s, Sloane Square, the District Line Tube rattled underground and overground, twisting and squealing on its tracks. When it reached South Kensington, the girl glanced in the twins’ direction again – then darted off the train.
‘Excuse me, sorry…’
Matt pulled Em off the train and up the steps into the ticket hall. The girl was already halfway up the steps, her dark hair billowing around her shoulders. The twins did their best to keep her in their sights, but it was a warm autumn day in the heart of the city and it was as if the whole world had descended on London’s cafés and restaurants.
Matt swore, looking left and right. ‘I think she went that way…’
The moment they hit the Cromwell Road, Em ground to a halt, reeling from an overwhelming sense of fear. She looked round, feeling disorientated and a little sick. All thoughts of the girl were forgotten.
Matt glanced at her. ‘What just happened?’
‘I just got this awful feeling, Mattie…’
‘Where from?’ Matt asked, his voice urgent. ‘A person? A place? Can you tell?’
‘It came from over there.’
Em pointed to the wide entrance of the Victoria and Albert Museum.
45.
LET ME GO
Rémy fled from the stairwell on the first floor of the Victoria and Albert Museum when he heard footsteps coming fast behind him. He cut through a long hallway, ducking among the statues to avoid the clusters of anxious visitors jostling their way to the emergency exits. The alarm was loud, the flashing lights bright, and both were making his eyes water. The golden tablet bounced against his breastbone, its vibrations thrumming.
Run, Rémy. Run!
He skidded into an empty lift and hit the button for the top floor. He gripped his harmonica and waited.
The doors opened on two people: male and female around his own age. Rémy flattened himself to the back of the lift with a gasp and reached for the button again.
‘Out you come,’ said the boy, grabbing Rémy by the scru
ff of his T-shirt.
Rémy pivoted in panic and threw a punch. The guy ducked, but Rémy’s fist caught him on his chin, sending his shades flying. The girl raised her hand and effortlessly caught the shades mid-air, tossing them back to her partner.
‘Chill, dude,’ said the boy, rubbing his chin and repositioning his shades. ‘We’re here to help.’
Rémy hit out again, but this time the girl twisted his arm in a hold he couldn’t shake. ‘Who the hell are you? Let me go. Let me go…’
‘Let’s just say, my brother and I are a lot like you, and we want to help,’ she said. ‘And unless you want to be arrested and locked up, or forced to answer a lot of questions about how you disappeared into that statue, I’d suggest you stop fighting us.’
The girl was striking in an intense kind of way, pale skin with brilliant green eyes.
She projected an aura that screamed ‘I could kill you with a look’. Her brother needed to cut his hair, shave and maybe ditch the shades. Oddly, Rémy didn’t feel threatened by either of them. Instead, he felt a wave of calm emanating from them both.
‘The Professor does that,’ he said cautiously. ‘In my head, he does the same thing. Are you like him?’
Em turned to her brother. ‘You heard of a Professor?’
‘Nope.’
She turned back to Rémy. ‘Tell us about him later. I’m Em, he’s Matt. And right now, we’d like to rescue you.’
Shouting and stomping feet could be heard in the stairwell and a swarm of cackling, cracking radios.
‘Rémy Dupree Rush,’ said Rémy. ‘Whatever you plan to do, now would be a good time.’
Matt grabbed Em and Em grabbed Rémy, pulling him across the gallery to a shadowy corner to stand inexplicably in front of a seventeeth-century painting of a girl at a desk.
‘Don’t we need a door?’ Rémy asked, looking over his shoulder.
‘Where we’re going,’ quipped the boy, ‘we don’t need doors.’
Rémy could hear the mob crashing into the room behind them. His decision to trust these guys suddenly felt like the worst decision he’d ever made. He dimly registered the fingers of the boy – Matt? – flying across a sketchpad, bringing to life the picture hanging on the wall.
Rémy’s skin tingled, his limbs turned to rubber, his heart flipped and his gut rolled. He thought his bones were dissolving and his head exploded with flashes of colour and light. It was like the guy was conjuring with a pencil.
Ah.
46.
TOO MUCH AWESOME
A girl in a heavy satin dress stood up from behind a desk to greet the twins and Rémy as they tumbled out from behind the heavy curtains in her chambers.
‘Thank heavens for a break in routine,’ she said. ‘I have not had many travellers recently and my fingers are sore and in need of rest. Are you from Orion?’
‘You’re aliens?’ asked Rémy.
He’s an idiot.
He’s adorable.
‘Not that kind of Orion,’ said Em aloud. ‘It’s an organization that helps and protects people with… well, with supernatural abilities.’
Rémy rubbed the back of his neck.
‘No shit. Sorry, miss,’ he added, ducking his head in embarrassment at the girl settling back on her stool and adjusting her wide brocade skirts.
‘Are you in pursuit of the one who’s stealing our instruments?’ asked the girl.
Em and Matt exchanged looks.
Caravaggio mentioned that.
‘What do you know about these missing instruments?’ Matt asked aloud.
‘I’ve heard rumours from another traveller through my painting,’ said the girl. She blushed prettily.
‘Caravaggio,’ the twins guessed in unison.
‘What have you heard?’ asked Em.
The young woman clasped her hands on her lap.
‘Many alarming things. But one hardly knows what to believe with you Animare.’
‘What’s an Animare?’ asked Rémy.
‘We use our imaginations to bring drawings to life,’ said Em.
‘How come I’ve never heard of you guys?’
‘It’s one of our rules,’ said Matt, sweeping his hair back from his face. ‘Don’t get noticed.’
‘The force is strong with this one,’ said Em, smiling at Matt and then Rémy. ‘If not you wouldn’t have survived fading with us.’
‘Whoa,’ said Rémy. ‘That fading thing… it might have killed me?’
‘I don’t think you’d have died exactly,’ said Em.
‘Are you kidding me?’
The girl cleared her throat delicately.
‘As I understand it, the villain is looking for a particular instrument hidden in a painting. I suppose he’ll know it when he finds it. In the meantime, we must all sit here and worry that our instruments will be stolen next.’
Rémy thought about his mother’s journal. Certain things were beginning to make sense.
‘You know what she’s talking about,’ Em said, focusing her green eyes on him. ‘I can feel it coming off you in waves.’
‘Yes,’ Rémy said simply. ‘I do.’
‘Do you know about the Camarilla?’ Matt asked.
Rémy shivered and nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Are they the ones looking for this instrument?’
Rémy nodded again. ‘I think so.’
‘Why?’ asked Em.
That, Rémy couldn’t answer.
‘We need to get you somewhere safe,’ said Matt. ‘Then you need to tell us what you were doing in that shop off the Strand yesterday.’
Em pointed at a small painting above the girl’s desk. ‘We’ll use that to fade back to Scotland,’ she said.
Rémy raised his hands. ‘I can’t go to Scotland,’ he said.
‘What’s wrong with Scotland?’ Matt snapped.
‘I need to get my guitar case. It’s still in the museum coat check. My mom’s journal is in the case. It explains… a lot.’
Matt sighed, shoving his shades on to the top of his head.
‘Jesus, dude,’ said Rémy. ‘What’s wrong with your eyes? That must hurt.’
‘Only when I get into seventeeth-century brawls.’
‘My brother can time travel with his eyes,’ Em explained.
Rémy laughed loud, a deep throaty laugh that lit up his whole face.
‘Oh my God, there’s just too much awesome in that sentence for me to handle.’
Matt grinned. He couldn’t help himself. There was something appealing about Rémy Dupree Rush.
‘How long have you guys had your powers?’ Rémy asked.
‘Forever,’ said Em. ‘But we never really did anything with them until we were nine or ten. What about you? How did you escape through the statue?’
‘I sang Puccini,’ said Rémy. ‘My mom has… had a record.’
‘Had?’ Em said.
‘She died.’
Em touched Rémy’s arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘We lost our dad when we were younger.’
They shared a silent moment, the air heavy with feeling.
‘I’m a Conjuror,’ Rémy said after a while. ‘When I sing or play, I can change the structure of objects and I can create new things… And, according to my mother’s journal, I’m the only one who can save the world from the rise of the Second Kingdom.’
47.
PUTTING IT TOGETHER
Annie Dupree Rush’s bulging journal resembled the walls Rémy had seen when he had burst into her room the day she died. Pulling it carefully from its padded bag as he stood alone at a London post-office box opened by the small key she’d slipped over his neck. Photos, articles torn from magazines and scribbled sketches had fallen from the journal’s pages when he opened it up for the very first time. Sheet music, riffs and choruses from songs, family trees and timelines, phrases from concertos and song cycles – everything was stuffed between its word-packed pages. And everywhere, the scrawled phrase musica vivificat mortuos, with furious underlines.
Music gives life to the dead.
Rémy took the journal from its hiding place inside the lining of his guitar case and placed it on the table at the church for Vaughn, Matt and Em to see.
‘The man… the thing that murdered my mom and my Tia Rosa called himself Don Grigori. This is what he was looking for.’
Vaughn whistled. ‘This is a lot of research,’ he said. ‘You say you’d never seen it before you took it from that locker?’
‘I saw her writing in it sometimes when I’d come home from school, but she’d hide it as soon as I walked in the door,’ Rémy said. ‘I thought it was just a diary, a way for her to make sense of the voices, the melodies and the strange noises in her head. Every Christmas I’d buy her a new one, and every Christmas she’d thank me and then put it in a drawer and never use it. I think she was afraid that if she began anew, she’d lose track of what she’d already discovered. It was as if her journal was holding her thoughts in place.’
Vaughn pulled a colour printout from among the pages. It showed a double portrait of two wealthy men, one sitting and one standing. The man on the left was tall and long-limbed, his arm and what remained of his fingers draped gracefully over the back of a mahogany throne chair. The seated man was red-faced and well fed, clothed in rich robes.
Rémy saw Em and Matt exchange a glance.
Vaughn noticed too. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’ he said.
Em looked uncomfortable. ‘We saw that painting,’ she said. ‘At Old Worm’s yesterday.’
Rémy rose to his feet. ‘It was there? I searched for it everywhere!’
Matt explained about finding the lift and the secret room. About the portrait, how it had only contained one man when they had hidden in the wardrobe, and two when they had re-emerged.
Pulling the golden tablet from around his neck, Rémy slammed it on the table beside the journal.
‘Mom gave me this before she died,’ he said, running his fingertip over the strange glyphs etched on its surface. ‘It took me to the shop. It told me where to look. I just didn’t look hard enough.’