by John
A gigantic sucking hole opened in the floor beneath Don Grigori ’s flyblown feet.
‘Walk on, through the wind, walk on, through the rain…’
The castrato screamed, high and pathetic, as Rémy’s sword paused over his heart.
‘This is for all of us,’ Rémy said, before hitting the song’s climax.
‘And you’ll ne-e-e-ver wa-a-alk alo-o-one.’
He hit high C.
Don Grigori’s head exploded at the exact moment Em crashed through the wall in a shiny pink army tank, and almost killed them all.
59.
REUNION
Three hours later, Matt and Rémy, still clothed in their black leather armour, sat on the benches of a decorative wooden gazebo with sides that had been laser-cut to resemble trees made of musical notes. The gazebo was situated in the centre of a lush garden, the laurel hedging of which was trimmed to afford an entertaining view of the chaos unfolding on the paved, circular driveway to El Parador de Montaña Roja, a luxury hotel on the edge of Olivera. The hotel had been constructed around an original sixteenth-century palace. Or, at least, what was left of it.
Three fire engines, a battalion of uniformed police, four gents in black suits and open-necked white shirts and a host of irate hotel guests were all staring at the smouldering remains of the hotel’s oldest and most expensive wing.
‘It was beautiful here once,’ said the Moor, joining the boys. ‘When the Grand Inquisitor took my castle from me, I built this instead. The gardens were full of birdsong and beautiful creatures. Now all is smoke and ruin. Such are the trials of time.’ He stared a little sadly at the wreckage. ‘I had forgotten that those barrels in the cellars contained gunpowder. You would think it had lost its bang in the intervening years.’
‘Apparently not,’ said Matt.
Rémy startled from his half-doze. ‘Professor?’ he said in astonishment. ‘Your voice… your beard? You’ve bathed? I don’t understand… How—’
The Moor cut gently through Rémy’s stammered questions. ‘Forgive the deception. My many guises were to protect you.’
‘You’re the Moor! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’
‘I let you fulfil your mother’s final wishes, God rest her soul.’
Rémy threw himself into the Moor’s open arms. The Moor held him against his chest for a few seconds before kissing each cheek.
‘I found you after all,’ Rémy said in wonder.
‘Indeed. Although you seemed to manage without me very well.’ The Moor smiled. ‘Your mother would be proud of all that you have accomplished.’
He placed his hands on Rémy’s shoulders.
‘I am sorry for not making myself known to you sooner. First of all, I needed to be sure it was you, and, second, I’d promised Annie to keep a watch over you, but not to draw you into a battle that was not yet yours, especially one I wasn’t sure we… you could win.’
‘We can win this,’ said Rémy with conviction.
‘He has more help now,’ said Matt. ‘The Grand Inquisitor has his Camarilla. The Conjuror has the Calder twins.’
For a beat, Rémy and Matt wavered between a fist-bump and a high-five. They embraced instead.
The Moor withdrew from his pocket the golden tablet that Don Grigori had taken from Rémy. He slipped the leather string over Rémy’s head so that the warm metal rested against Rémy’s chest once again.
‘I gave half of this to a young boy, the first Conjuror I failed to protect, all those centuries ago, as a talisman and a promise of my fealty,’ he said. ‘It’s been in your family line ever since. And with it, my pledge still stands.’
‘Thank you,’ said Rémy. He touched his tablet, his talisman. ‘It knew where the portrait was.’
‘The portrait is no longer in Old Worm’s,’ said the Moor, his eyes hooded and his tone full of concern. ‘We must find it again quickly before the Grand Inquisitor can be released again.’
‘Lucky your painting was in London for that exhibition,’ said Matt.
‘Luck,’ said the Moor with a smile, patting Matt on the shoulder, ‘had little to do with it. Just as the Grand Inquisitor has his Camarilla, I too have valuable friends.’
‘Are you going to take this place back?’ Matt gestured at the gardens, and the palatial hotel. ‘It’s yours, after all.’
‘One day,’ said the Moor. ‘But it will require careful planning. This world has thought me dead for a very long time, after all.’
Footsteps approached on the secluded path behind the gazebo, coming from the direction of the stables. Rémy and Matt leaped to their feet, nerves frayed and perceptions still heightened.
Em stepped inside the gazebo and grinned at them.
‘So, a shiny pink army tank, Em,’ Matt said, relaxing again. ‘Really?’
Em threw herself between Matt and Rémy on the bench. ‘All I had in my pocket was a melted lipgloss. What can I say?’
60.
INTRODUCTIONS
Em’s flip-phone pinged.
‘Finally, service,’ she said, glancing at the screen. ‘It’s from Vaughn. He says he’s on his way.’
Matt stared at the people by the front of the hotel. ‘He’s here already. Look.’
Vaughn stood among the police and hotel guests. A tall dark-haired young woman stood with him.
‘Who’s with him?’ Rémy asked.
‘Hope it’s not Mum,’ said Em.
Vaughn broke into a jog towards them, his face set in a frown the twins knew a little too well. The woman kept pace with him, although she took a more sedate route than Vaughn, who simply hurdled the low hedges of the garden. The gazebo was becoming less and less like a quiet spot for romantic interludes and more and more like a crowded bus shelter.
‘My God,’ Vaughn growled, pulling Em and Matt into angry hugs, ‘you two will be the death of me. What were you thinking? I sent you on a simple job. You nearly get yourselves killed!’
He shook Rémy’s hand with a swift nod, and looked curiously at the Moor.
‘Lakshmi,’ he said to his female companion, ‘meet my reprobate trainees, Matt and Em Calder. And Rémy Dupree Rush too, of course. This is Lakshmi Misra, from the Metropolitan Police.’
‘You’re the police officer at Old Worm’s,’ Rémy said, staring at Lakshmi.
‘I remember you too,’ said Matt. ‘Em and I followed you to South Kensington.’
Lakshmi lifted her shoulders apologetically. ‘There was no other way to get you across the city to where you needed to be. Rémy was there with Alessandro’s portrait, and I knew he needed your help.’
‘Señor Grant,’ said the Moor, bowing slightly. ‘Don Alessandro de Mendoza, the Moor of Cadiz. I’ve heard a great deal about you and your organization over the years. Truth be told, if not for your fine young agents, we would all be in a lamentable state. And my dear Lakshmi! Is my portrait safe? I had no choice but to abandon it.’
‘The curators were a little stunned,’ said Lakshmi, ‘but Papa has covered your tracks, and I was able to contact Vaughn and explain what was happening. He was already concerned for the twins’ safety, so I invited him to travel with me.’
‘Is this the first time you’ve worked together?’ asked Rémy.
Lakshmi smiled. ‘I’ve had Orion’s number for a long time, but I’ve never had to use it until this week.’
‘So you lied to us earlier when you said Orion knew about the Camarilla and the painting,’ said Em, her hands on her hips.
‘I’m sorry, Em, but at that moment things were on a need-to-know basis. You both are still on probation after all.’
‘I’m impressed,’ said Matt, grinning and slapping Vaughn on the shoulder.
‘With what?’ said Vaughn, eying him suspiciously.
‘With the fact that you were able to keep a lie from Em’s Guardian senses.’
‘Thank you,’ smiled Vaughn. ‘I’ve been practising.’
‘I need a lesson or two,’ said Matt.
61
<
br /> STREET FIGHTING MAN
The following morning, Matt, Em, Rémy and the Moor sat on the balcony of a small bed and breakfast on a leafy cobbled street off Seville’s main square. Vaughn had already returned to London with Lakshmi, to meet with the European Council of Guardians and enlighten them on Rémy’s existence. The same artist who ran the gallery through which Em, Matt and Rémy had faded two days ago owned the bed and breakfast, which for the time being was closed to other guests.
The dishes from breakfast had been cleared and only coffee cups and an assortment of water and juice glasses remained. The balcony was in the shade as it was still early and the streets around the square were quiet. Shopkeepers were sweeping their stoops and hosing the previous night’s debris into the sewers, preparing for the first wave of tourists.
The smells of coffee and warm bread reminded Rémy of Tia Rosa. He swallowed hard.
‘Grief comes in waves,’ Em said, watching him. ‘The waves take your breath away some days. Other days, you can ride them.’
Rémy smiled and swirled the coffee in his cup. ‘Are your waves getting smaller?’
‘A little. Maybe,’ Em replied. ‘But my grief’s a bit different. Zach’s not dead. Just gone.’
Once the table was cleared, Matt spread out his sketches from the Grand Inquisitor’s ruined palace. The Moor examined them closely.
‘An amazing likeness. This man,’ he said, pointing at the artist Matt had captured climbing from the debris. ‘He may have been the true hero of the day.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Matt.
‘His name is Hieronymus Bosch, a brilliant artist and Animare. He and I had planned for the boy to incapacitate the Grand Inquisitor and Don Grigori with his voice, so that we could take the one thing the Grand Inquisitor has protected since he came into being. I failed in my part. He succeeded in his. For that, we can at least be grateful.’
Em tapped the object tucked up against the artist’s tunic. ‘Did his part have something to do with what’s in this box?’
‘That box contains the most sacred of all musical instruments,’ said the Moor. ‘The Lyre of Orpheus. When the lyre is played, it has the power to open the underworld.’
‘Musica vivificat mortuos,’ Rémy said softly. ‘Music gives life to the dead.’
‘Where is the lyre now?’ Em asked. ‘Where did Bosch hide it?’
‘That,’ said the Moor, ‘is a very good question.’
‘And, perhaps, that,’ said Matt, sitting up, ‘is why someone is stealing musical instruments from paintings. They’re looking for the lyre.’
The sound of taxi and car horns and the rising voices of three arguing men rose to their table. The Moor leaned over the railing.
‘Now, this reminds me of my time,’ he said approvingly. ‘Men fighting in the streets over their debts, or the love of a beautiful woman.’
Two of the men had knocked a third to the ground, who was now jumping to his feet and preparing to take both of them on. Men were bursting from nearby cafés to join the fray, three young women obviously related to one or more of the men jumping in the mix behind them. The commotion had blocked the narrow thoroughfare.
Abruptly, Matt vaulted over the balcony and landed on his feet in the middle of the chaos. Em, Rémy and the Moor watched in surprise as Matt punched, jabbed and dodged his way through the melee, heading into the thick of the brawl – where Em spotted a familiar figure, black curls blowing, wicked black eyes gleaming, fists flying.
‘Perhaps we should give Matt some assistance,’ said the Moor.
Someone from a balcony opposite shoved open their shutters, cranked their stereo and blasted out the Stones’ ‘Street Fightin’ Man’ from a set of cheap speakers to add to the atmosphere. From the other side of the square, police sirens cut through the sounds of battle, heading their way.
‘I think I’ll let Matt have all the fun,’ said Rémy with a wince.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ asked Em, her fingers touching his swollen jaw.
‘More than I’ve been in a while.’ He squeezed her hand.
Matt had reached Caravaggio now. He strong-armed the artist across the street, back to the door of the bed and breakfast, shoving him hard up the stairs and out on the balcony, throwing him to the ground at Em, Rémy and the Moor’s feet.
‘Why so serious, my little friend?’ Caravaggio gave a drunken hiccup. One of his eyes was already swelling from a well-laid punch. ‘S’only a fight…’
Without Caravaggio’s input, the fighting was already morphing to energetic dancing. Taxis and cars were pulling up, disgorging crowds intent on joining the party.
‘Keep him there, Em,’ Matt ordered.
Em put her foot on Caravaggio’s black-shirted chest, holding him down, until Matt returned to the balcony with a packet of frozen peas. He tossed them to Caravaggio, who pressed them to his eye.
‘Vegetables are good for one thing only,’ Caravaggio grinned. ‘Painting.’
The Moor gazed curiously at Caravaggio. ‘Michele?’ he said. ‘Is that you?’
‘Alessandro!’
The Moor helped the artist to his feet. The men embraced with enthusiasm.
‘Why am I not surprised they know each other?’ said Em to Matt.
‘Who is he?’ asked Rémy.
Matt grabbed the frozen peas from Caravaggio and held them to his own bottom lip, which was already starting to puff up where he’d taken a glancing blow.
‘This thug is Caravaggio, the bane of my Orion existence.’
‘Caravaggio?’ said Rémy. ‘Like, the artist?’
‘I am not like the artist,’ said Caravaggio, leaning on the Moor for support and looking offended. ‘I am the artist.’
‘Are you hungry, Michele?’ the Moor asked.
‘He is not,’ said Matt emphatically. ‘His appetite is what got him the black eye.’
‘A gold coin is worth nothing in this age,’ Caravaggio complained. ‘I simply offered a service to cover my meal and its taxes. The landlord was unwilling to barter.’
‘How did you get away from Guthrie? You didn’t hurt him, did you?’ asked Em.
‘Of course not!’ said Caravaggio. ‘I’d never hurt another artist. I simply offered him a service in exchange for my freedom. Would you like details?’
‘No!’ said the twins in unison.
‘Why are you here?’ Matt asked.
Caravaggio wagged a finger. ‘One good turn deserves another. You are hard to find, pretty boy. I have been drinking my way around half the cities in Spain in pursuit of you.’
‘It’s a hard life,’ Em observed.
‘I have news of a painting that gossip suggests you are trying to find,’ Caravaggio declared. ‘A double portrait, yes?’
‘You’ve seen the portrait?’ Rémy said, rising from his chair.
Where the hell does he get his information from, Mattie?
Don’t ask, Em. Just be grateful.
‘Tell us where it is, Caravaggio,’ said Matt out loud.
‘Somewhere ve-ery difficult to access,’ the artist said. ‘Somewhere, truth to tell, where I should not have been in the first place. But when has that ever stopped me?’
The Moor laughed. ‘Never in my experience, Michele.’
‘Where is the portrait?’ said Rémy. ‘Please, sir, this is very important.’
Caravaggio prodded Rémy on the chest. ‘I like this boy. He has manners. The painting that you seek is in…’ He paused, eyeing Matt and Em. ‘Well now, I seem to have forgotten. Perhaps the offer of my continued freedom in the world might dislodge the memory?’
‘You can have two months if you tell us,’ said Em.
‘Thank you, dear girl.’ Caravaggio winked at Matt. ‘You’ve always been my favourite.’
‘The painting,’ growled Matt.
‘The portrait you seek is inside a vault beneath the Vatican City itself.’
We hope you enjoyed this book!
The next compelling instalment in the
Orion Chronicles will be released in spring 2017
For more information, click the following links
Acknowledgements
Questions for Your Book Club
About John & Carole E. Barrowman
Also by John & Carole E. Barrowman
An invitation from the Publisher
Acknowledgements
When we’re collaborating on a project, it’s never just the two of us. There’s a team involved. We’d like to applaud a few folks on Team Barrowman for helping ‘Conjuror’ appear in this world. First, standing ovation to Lucy Courtenay, our extraordinary editor who has been a guardian to Matt and Em since they first fled London. Woot! Woot! to all at Head of Zeus (still the coolest name for a publisher), especially fiction publisher Laura Palmer for chaperoning the twins into young adulthood and welcoming RD with open arms. To Gavin Barker and his crew at Gavin Barker & Associate Ltd, and Georgina Capel and hers at Georgina Capel & Associates Ltd, champagne and cake to all.
Finally, our deepest thanks and forever love must go to our family, especially our spouses, Kevin Casey and Scott Gill. Without Kevin’s support Carole may never get out of her PJs and go outside, and without Scott Gill’s support John would be mumbling a lot more to himself. Our parents, John & Marion Barrowman are our biggest cheerleaders and we love them even more (that’s possible, right?) for that. The ‘children’ in our lives – Clare, Casey, Finnegan, Adeline, Turner and Hannah – keep us grounded even when they don’t think we’re as funny as we think we are.
We’re a hoot!
Love,
Carole and John
2016
Questions for Your Book Club
•What did you think of Em, Matt and Rémy’s special powers in the story? If you could draw one thing and have it come to life, what would it be?
•Rémy’s musical abilities allow him to alter reality. If you could conjure using a specific skill, what would that skill be?