The Runaways cautiously filed into the hall. Despite their apprehension, they wanted to confront their enemies and fellow Insiders. Senses alert, they took out their Granok-Shooters to give them courage and instinctively closed ranks. Oksa looked around warily, unsure what to do if a Felon suddenly appeared. Suddenly, they saw a backlit figure at the top of the monumental staircase. Its shadow stretched to Dragomira’s feet and she stiffened. The elegant, regal figure slowly descended the steps, followed by two other, larger silhouettes. When they reached the middle of the staircase, the light from the candles finally illuminated their faces.
“Good evening, Dragomira… Good evening, Young Gracious,” rang out a female voice that some of them recognized instantly. “You’ve come well protected, I see!”
“Good evening, Mercedica,” replied Dragomira, suppressing a sudden surge of rage. “Allow me to return the compliment,” she added, staring at the two young men beside her.
“Why, thank you,” replied the haughty Spanish woman wryly. “Delighted to meet you at last, Reminiscens,” she added suddenly. “After all these years… I imagine you’ve recognized your nephews, haven’t you?”
Oksa felt Reminiscens flinch. Mercedica hadn’t lost any time in opening hostilities… Reminiscens was more robust than she looked, though; she glared icily at the trio.
“Mortimer and Gregor, your twin brother’s sons!” said Mercedica, looking pleased as punch.
The two young men’s mocking smiles were immediately wiped from their faces by Reminiscens’ retort.
“For your information, Mercedica, I feel as much sense of kinship with the young men you call my ‘nephews’ as this crumpled paper handkerchief in my pocket.”
With this, she pulled out the handkerchief and walked over to the nearest candle sconce. There was a stunned silence as the handkerchief burst into flames. Reminiscens let it fall to the floor and crushed the burning fragments under her heel.
“Blood ties are stronger than some tatty handkerchief, my dear Reminiscens,” sneered Mercedica with a forced smile. “Still, we’ll have time to talk about all that later,” she continued, descending the last few steps. “Do come in!”
Flanked by Gregor and Mortimer, she walked over to the double doors on the left and flung them open. There, in deathly silence, stood all the Felons who’d rallied to Orthon’s cause, their eyes fixed on the Runaways.
Dragomira entered the huge living room, flanked by Oksa, Reminiscens and Abakum. The room was thickly carpeted and lit by the wavering light of oil lamps mounted on the polished sandstone walls. There were a number of worn leather armchairs arranged in a semicircle around an enormous hearth where a fire was burning merrily, while others were grouped separately around hammered metal coffee tables. The wall at the end of the room was entirely covered with bookshelves filled with shabby antique books. The luxurious setting would have been welcoming, were it not for the incredibly tense atmosphere.
Although discomfited, the Runaways were probably no more intimidated than the Felons who, despite their grim expressions, couldn’t conceal their confusion at coming face to face with four people whose illustrious reputation had preceded them: two Graciouses, the twin sister of their leader, Orthon, and the powerful Fairyman. The creatures and the Runaways, whom they couldn’t see but whose presence they could sense outside the house, also urged caution. Abakum, Dragomira and Reminiscens couldn’t help feeling emotional at the sight of the faces before them. Some of them still looked incredibly familiar, more than fifty years after leaving Edefia. As a result, even though they’d known they’d see them on the island sooner or later, Edefia’s “Elders” couldn’t help feeling a little ambivalent about recognizing Lukas, the talented mineralogist, and Agafon, the former Memorarian—custodian of the Gracious Archives. None of the Insiders could have claimed they were completely prepared for this showdown in the flesh.
“Won’t you sit down?” suggested Mercedica, waving a beringed hand at several sofas against the wall.
None of the seven Runaways moved. They were too busy examining the others. Oksa noticed that Mortimer couldn’t take his eyes off Zoe. He’d changed so much! He’d lost his excess body weight and looked thinner, yet stronger. Turning to look encouragingly at her cousin, Oksa was surprised to see that Zoe was glaring defiantly at Mortimer with her arms firmly crossed. Oksa transferred her gaze to the other teenager, who looked as though he had to be related to Orthon: lean frame, black eyes and rigid bearing. “That must be Gregor,” thought the Young Gracious, studying his hard face. “He was the one who’d dared to raise a hand to Baba and who’d stolen the Medallion and the Goranov! What a lowlife.”
It was Dragomira who finally broke the stand-off. She strode over to Mercedica with a fierce expression in her eyes. The Felons looked uneasy, and several of them took up defensive stances, ready to fight. In a tight crimson wrap-over top, with expensive jewellery dripping from her neck and hands, traitorous Mercedica seemed amused by the situation and was smiling nastily. At her side, her daughter Catarina eyed the Runaways contemptuously.
“This is not a social visit,” said the Old Gracious eventually. “Where is Orthon? I expect he’s holed up somewhere, isn’t he?”
“All in good time!” taunted Mercedica. “But, tell me, are there only seven of you? Did your friends get cold feet and turn back?”
There were a few sniggers and scornful sneers. Dragomira didn’t bother to answer. Oksa was the one who replied.
“You watched us arrive!” she said, her voice shaking. “You know very well that we outnumber you!”
“My dear Oksa,” sighed Mercedica, looking amused. “There may be a lot of you, but there isn’t always strength in numbers…”
Suddenly there was a commotion in the hall and the door was flung open. A hideous creature burst into the living room, bellowing raucously.
“GRRR! The decrepit old shrew and her degenerate descendants! Why don’t you all eat dung and die!”
“Fantastic! That’s all we need,” huffed Dragomira, recognizing the Abominari.
The slimy, bony creature launched itself at her, twisted claws outstretched. Dragomira put up her hand and a thin projectile of light shot from the centre of her palm to strike the Abominari head on, hurling it against the metal fireguard. It fell over backwards, its shoulder smoking, then dashed at her again, growling more with rage than pain.
“I’ll disembowel you and wear your decaying guts as a stinking necklace, you scraggy hyena!”
This time Mercedica blocked its way, catching hold of the sticky limb which served as an arm. The Abominari struggled to free itself.
“I see it’s just as charming as ever,” scoffed Dragomira.
“Shut your putrid cakehole, vile harpy!” snarled the Abominari.
“You do not possess the right to make voicing of uncouthness in the direction of my Old Gracious!” objected the Lunatrix, who had turned completely translucent with anger.
“I possess the right to do whatever I want, pig-faced slave!”
Angrily, Oksa performed a Magnetus and the paper-knife on a desk in the corner of the room suddenly thudded between the creature’s three gnarled toes, almost severing one.
“Daughter of a sow!” yelled the Abominari.
“Hey! I’ve had enough of this!” shouted Oksa, losing her temper.
That horrible creature had gone too far. Noticing a basket filled with wood by the fireplace, Oksa concentrated hard. A second later, a massive log dropped onto the Abominari’s head and the creature staggered, then collapsed on the floor with a disgusting sucking noise.
“Tut tut tut, my friends! Is this any way to celebrate a reunion which is such an… unlooked-for pleasure?” boomed a man’s voice.
The Runaways froze—they’d have recognized that voice anywhere. They stood in silence as the man walked through the wall and threaded his way between the Felons to stand in front of Dragomira.
“Good evening, Dragomira,” he said, with a slight bow. “Or should I say: Good evening, dear
sister.”
17
OPERATION “FREE MARIE”
STOICALLY BRAVING THE WIND AND RAIN, PAVEL AND HIS friends were carrying out their mission in their separate ways: Naftali, Brune, Pierre and Feng Li were scuttling across the facade like large spiders, using the smallest crevices as footholds and handholds, while Pavel and Cockerell were Vertiflying from window to window, trying to look inside. No matter what method they’d chosen, however, they were united in cause and well matched in courage.
“Marie, where are you?” muttered Pavel. Pierre signalled to him, his face red from the icy gusts of wind. Only the strength of his index finger clinging to the tiny cornice along the roof was keeping him pressed against the wall. With a backflip, the “Viking” released his hold and Vertiflew over to Pavel.
“She’s here!”
In an instant, the six Runaways huddled together and had a whispered conversation a few yards above ground. Pavel nodded, putting his hand on Naftali’s shoulder. The towering Swede plunged into the wall and disappeared, holding his Granok-Shooter. The sound of shouting initially gave the Runaways cause for concern but, eventually, the window opened and Naftali popped his head out, beaming with triumph.
Gagged and bound by Naftali’s Arborescens, the wide-eyed woman watched Pavel rush over to the bed where Marie was lying. Pavel and Marie had been kept apart by the Felons for over four months and the indescribable relief they felt as they flung their arms around each other was almost as heart-rending as the shock Pavel had felt when he was told the terrible news of her abduction. It felt like Pavel’s heart was cracking open to release all the worry he’d buried inside for so long. It was such a comfort to be reunited with the woman he loved. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his pounding heart and, cupping Marie’s face in his hands, he gazed into her eyes.
“Someone’s coming!” warned Pierre, his ear pressed against the door.
Pavel leapt to his feet and positioned himself defensively in front of the bed. Opposite him, Naftali was keeping the bound woman at a respectful distance. Her eyes were frightened and pleading.
“Don’t hurt her!” said Marie quietly.
Pavel looked quizzically at her.
“She’s done a lot for me…” she added, before the door was flung open with a crash.
Four Felons burst into the room and stopped short at the sight of the new “occupants”. Against all expectation, the Runaways were proving to be a force to be reckoned with: the Knuts’ imposing appearance, Pierre’s and Cockerell’s bulk, Feng Li’s inscrutable expression and Pavel’s fury only enhanced the sense of fierce determination radiating from the group.
Making the most of their assailants’ brief indecision and mute amazement, Brune leapt into the air and slammed both feet against the chest of one of the Felons, who crashed to the floor, knocking over the other three. They retaliated by firing Granoks, which the Runaways managed to dodge, then some Fireballisticos, which Pavel simply intercepted, since he didn’t seem to be harmed by flames, or even feel them. Pierre ended this lightning attack by knocking the four Felons unconscious with a Knock-Bong to the back of the neck.
“Watch out!” said Feng Li, standing sentry by the window. “There are more coming from outside.”
“And from this way!” said Pierre, glancing out into the corridor.
Although he knew it was futile, he slammed the door and took out his Granok-Shooter. The Runaways exchanged looks, drawing strength from the intense determination burning in their eyes. Like battle-hardened soldiers, they prepared to face the ten or so Felons who lost no time in bursting into Marie’s room through the walls and the window.
18
POISONED ARROWS
OKSA TOOK A STEP BACK. ORTHON WAS THERE IN THE flesh, looking almost completely physically intact. He was wearing thick dark glasses but the Crucimaphila had clearly left its mark on his face and hands—as it must have done on the rest of his body. From a distance, his complexion looked iridescent, but as he drew nearer the Runaways could see that his skin was pitted, as if full of holes which had been painstakingly filled with what looked like… Goranov sap! Oksa couldn’t help thinking about that poor, highly strung plant. She hoped it had survived. The Felon’s hair was no longer deep black—it was now a striking aluminium grey. He stopped in the centre of the room and took off his glasses, revealing another change to his appearance, which amazed anyone who’d ever experienced the weight of his unfathomably black eyes. Like his hair, his piercing gaze was now steel-grey and glittered with even more cruelty than before.
Oksa felt a small hot hand slipping into hers: the Lunatrix had sensed how unsettled she was by Orthon. The Young Gracious was struggling to stay strong, assailed by all the bad memories and the dangers represented by the Felon. He’d caused her family and loved ones so much pain! After narrowly escaping death, he now seemed stronger than before, as if the change wrought by the Crucimaphila had made him more powerful. Although he looked thinner in his black sweater and charcoal-grey trousers, he radiated an aura of formidable strength. Narrowing his eyes, he curiously studied the Runaways and their creatures, then turned back to Oksa with renewed interest. When she felt his icy stare on her, the Young Gracious had the impression that she’d stepped back in time. She was hit by the same unbearable pain, like a hard punch to the stomach, that she’d experienced on the first day of school when she’d met the Felon maths teacher for the first time. Orthon looked so invulnerable. She battled to control the pain and panic, assisted by her Curbita-Flatulo, which was undulating around her wrist. Behind her, Abakum put his hands on her shoulders, and a surge of energy and confidence spread through her. She glimpsed a faint shadow of doubt pass over Orthon’s face, showing that, despite his evil powers, the Felon obviously feared the Fairyman.
A few seconds later, he turned his attention away from Oksa—only temporarily, she was sure—and noticed his twin sister. Discomfited, Reminiscens stiffened and proudly braved Orthon’s unfathomable gaze.
“My wonderful sister,” murmured Orthon.
No one could tell if Orthon’s tone was sad or ironic. Perhaps a bit of both…
“You’ve chosen sides then,” he continued.
“There was never any doubt,” said Reminiscens, her voice admirably steady. “I’ve followed my heart, not my family.”
This answer seemed to upset Orthon.
“Why do all of you keep rejecting blood ties?” he replied, his deceptively playful tone intended to annoy them. “You can’t argue with the science of genetics.”
“But genes are far from the only things that bring people together!” retorted Reminiscens.
Orthon stared at her malevolently, then sat down in a heavy leather armchair in the centre of the room. After a tense silence, he continued:
“You look very well, dear sister.”
“No thanks to you!” objected Reminiscens, clutching her long cashmere cardigan around her.
Orthon pulled a face.
“Of course, I forgot—the only reason you’re here is because of your former devoted escort, the wonderful, saint-like Leomido! I’m surprised he isn’t here with you,” Orthon remarked, narrowing his eyes. “Is he afraid to face his half-brother? Or is he ashamed that he’s related to me?”
The Runaways blanched. Orthon obviously didn’t know about Leomido’s death, and hadn’t been taunting them when he’d asked the question at Bigtoe Square while possessing Zelda’s body—he’d really wanted to know what had happened to his half-brother! Oksa held her breath, worried about how he might react when they told him the awful news.
“I’ve always known he couldn’t handle the truth,” continued Orthon quietly. “What a let-down. For years, he was held up as an example! And now, rather than face up to things, he’s hiding like a scared little mouse. How very disappointing.”
“Leomido’s dead!” broke in Reminiscens, her voice trembling with barely suppressed anger.
The revelation came as a complete shock to Orthon: they saw his face ch
ange. His eyes widened and welled with tears, while his features tensed and his face went white. His hands clutched the armrests of the armchair so hard that his knuckles made a cracking noise. He didn’t seem to have considered the possibility that things might turn out like this between him and the half-brother he’d always competed against. He shut his eyes to avoid the curious and apprehensive stares. When he reopened them after a few minutes, he studied the face of his twin, who was trying hard to mask her hatred.
“How did it happen?” he whispered hoarsely.
“He couldn’t live with the secret,” hissed Reminiscens. “He chose death. The Soul-Searcher took him.”
Hearing this, Orthon stood up and went over to the fire, without a glance for anyone. Resting his hands against the mantelpiece, he stood there, back bowed, ignoring his dismayed entourage and the Runaways. Outside the wind was gusting violently, banging the shutters and shaking the walls. Since Orthon seemed lost in grief, the Runaways eventually sat down on the many sofas.
Oksa made the most of this lull in the conversation to examine the Felons. Her attention was particularly drawn by two imposing men who radiated intelligence and cruelty. “Agafon and Lukas,” she deduced. “Bloodthirsty Werewalls.” Although they had to be in their fifties, they were tall, well built and exuded an air of nobility heightened by their abnormally youthful looks. “Nontemporentas,” immediately thought Oksa. “Pearls of Longevity!” Both men were wearing Edefia’s traditional costume: a kind of dark woollen kimono with embroidered geometric motifs around the collar and cuffs. One of them bowed when Oksa met his glittering eyes and she looked away in confusion. Eventually Orthon returned to his armchair in the middle of the room and the Master of the Felons was once again the centre of attention.
With crossed arms and a murderous expression in her eyes, Reminiscens gazed at her hated twin, who looked so much like her. They came from the same egg, they shared the same cells—how could they have chosen such different paths? They’d loved each other dearly until Ocious had ordered the Beloved Detachment which was to ruin the life of the young woman she’d been and the woman she’d become. Orthon could have halted that shameful crime if he’d wanted to. Did he feel guilty at all? He must have done, before madness had claimed him… in fact, she wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that it was one of the grievances he had against Ocious, their father. Subconsciously, he was probably riddled with guilt. Even though she believed that, Reminiscens couldn’t bear to watch Orthon strutting around. She couldn’t control the wave of bitter rage that washed over her. She rushed into the middle of the room, coming to stand a few inches from her brother, and looked deep into his eyes. The Felons immediately responded threateningly, but Orthon raised his hand to stop them.
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