“Decaying old hag! I’m going to slit your throat like the sow you are!”
Recognizing the Abominari, Oksa quickly held her hand out in front of her and hurled it to the other side of the cellar with a powerful Knock-Bong. But the terrible monster’s resistance—and motivation—were equal to anything. It got to its feet immediately and rushed at the second Dragomira.
“Vermin! You’re going to die in this cellar and rot here for all eternity!”
Oksa had no time to react before the Abominari violently scratched the old lady’s chest with its foul claws, then made its escape up the staircase into the house. Its unfortunate victim gave a cry of pain and her torn dress revealed a Medallion which gleamed brightly. Malorane’s Medallion! Without a second’s hesitation, Oksa lifted her Granok-Shooter to her lips and blew into it, after saying the accompanying words in her head. The first Dragomira was immediately held tight by a viscous creeper.
“What are you doing, you little fool! Have you lost your head?”
Grimacing from the pain of her wounds, the second Dragomira went over to Oksa and hugged her tenderly, murmuring:
“Dushka…”
“Baba,” replied Oksa, in huge relief. “You’re really badly injured. We must get out of here so we can get you some help.”
Gus also came over.
“Thank you, Gus. You were amazing!” exclaimed Oksa.
“It was nothing. But you’re right, we have to get out of here, Dragomira’s in a terrible state.”
Baba Pollock, leaning heavily on the two friends, seemed to be on the verge of collapse. Opposite them, the first Dragomira was reverting to her original appearance, that of the Felon Orthon-McGraw. The shape he’d assumed was gradually vanishing. The hard, cruel face which Gus and Oksa knew so well had virtually returned. The shape-shifting process was over and they were chilled by the rage burning in McGraw’s eyes and radiating from his tense features.
“You really are a monster!” said Oksa, regretting that she’d felt sorry for the man a few minutes earlier—someone as despicable as he didn’t deserve her pity. In recent months, the Runaways had seen the great principles of life come under repeated attack.
“You wanted to kill my gran! And you made my mother sick! I hate you. I REALLY HATE YOU!” she yelled, every ounce of compassion deserting her.
Dragomira shut her eyes and, leaning on her granddaughter and Gus, raised her Granok-Shooter to her lips. She was about to blow into it when she met McGraw’s eyes. Weakened by pangs of conscience, she lowered her arm.
“I can’t,” she murmured, slumping against the wall. “I can’t kill him…”
“Baba!” cried Oksa, kneeling by her exhausted gran. “Gus! What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know, Oksa,” replied Gus in a broken voice. “But we’re going to have to find… QUICK—” he added, his attention drawn to the staircase.
Oksa followed his eyes and saw a surprisingly dense shadow moving down the stairs.
“What is that thing?” yelled Gus, terrified.
“Abakum… dear Abakum, you’re here…” said Dragomira weakly.
“And now your gran’s delirious!” said Gus in a panic. “We’re finished.”
The shadow glided downstairs and reached them in no time. With his hand over his mouth, Gus felt every drop of blood draining from his body as he faced the facts: the shadow didn’t belong to a body, or an object, or a creature—it wasn’t attached to anything.
“Oh hell!” he muttered. “I think Death is coming for us!”
McGraw, immobilized by Oksa’s Arborescens Granok, stared at this strange phenomenon. The shadow came to a halt and, with a silky rustle, materialized. McGraw struggled violently against his fetters, recognizing the man who’d just appeared.
“Abakum! Abakum, is that really you?” exclaimed Oksa, open-mouthed in astonishment. “I knew it!”
“Yes, it’s me, dear girl,” confirmed Dragomira’s Watcher.
“But that shadow—” muttered Gus.
“Fairyman, Shadowman, I keep watch over you,” came his simple reply. “Your Lunatrix told me everything,” he added, looking sadly at Dragomira. “I shall do what you can’t.”
He went over and squeezed her shoulder with infinite kindness. His eyes filled with tears and pain as he glanced at her one last time. Then he took out his Granok-Shooter and, without saying a word, blew in McGraw’s direction. The Felon widened his eyes as the Granok hit him head-on. Above his head, a dark spiral formed and began whirling unbelievably fast. McGraw craned his neck to try and see what Oksa and Gus were gazing at so intently. And when he managed to catch a glimpse of what was happening a couple of inches above his head, he blanched, groaned and struggled even harder to escape the creeper which was holding him captive. It was a waste of time and effort. The spiral stopped rotating and steadied, becoming a kind of black hole which moved slowly but inexorably closer to McGraw’s head. The minute it touched the first of his hairs, the Felon exploded. Billions of dark particles flew through the Arborescens and were immediately drawn up into the black hole. A few seconds later there was nothing left of McGraw—only a few fragments of yellow creeper lying on the floor and a strangely shimmering black cloud floating just below the ceiling.
“What was that?” whispered Oksa in horror.
“A Crucimaphila, Oksa,” murmured Dragomira brokenly. “The ultimate Black Globus.”
An icy shiver ran down Oksa’s spine. So that’s what the terrible Crucimaphila was! Gus, as overawed as Oksa, staggered, but didn’t lose his footing. Abakum carefully put away his Granok-Shooter and lifted Dragomira into his arms. Impatient to leave this nightmarish house at last, the four of them turned, went upstairs and regained the peace and quiet of the street.
“Let’s go home, kids.”
And as the Fairyman was driving them through the icy rain to the city centre, they had no idea that Mortimer McGraw had entered the cellar a short time after they’d left. At the same time as they arrived in Bigtoe Square, the boy, in tears, his heart filled with rage and insane hope, was clutching a phial filled with the particles of the black hole which was now his father, the Felon Orthon-McGraw.
1
AN UNEXPECTED CONNECTION
ZOE FRANTICALLY RUSHED AROUND THE MCGRAWS’ house, looking in every room. Orthon had disappeared and there was no sign of his wife Barbara or his son Mortimer. She was alone.
“Go to your room, Zoe, don’t worry,” Mortimer had told her, two weeks ago. “I’ll pop up and see you in a bit.”
That was the last time she’d spoken to him. She’d waited all evening, then she’d fallen asleep, worn out with worry. The house was empty when she’d woken up. Horribly empty. Again Zoe had waited for hours for Orthon or Mortimer to come back, wandering from room to room and leaving worried messages on their mobiles, which had rung unanswered. Hours had turned into days. The cupboards and fridge gradually emptied, dust settled on the furniture, growing thicker by the day, and spiders’ webs formed high up on the walls. With all hope gone, she’d finally had to face hard facts: she’d been abandoned. She was all alone in the world with nowhere to go and no one cared if she lived or died. The house felt as if it were closing in on her like a tomb.
This unpleasant sensation shocked her into action. She packed a small bag with her most valuable possessions: the photo album documenting key events in her short life, a few birthday cards, a pendant in the shape of a clover leaf and her gran’s strange-looking flute. Then, with her bag slung over her shoulder, she walked to the Pollocks’ house without looking back, her heart in pieces.
When Dragomira opened the door she was astounded to recognize a thin, grubby Zoe gazing at her with desperate, tear-filled eyes ringed with dark circles.
“Mrs Pollock, I’m so sorry for coming here—I didn’t know where else to go…”
Then, overcome with emotion, she sank down onto the top step in front of the house. Dragomira, still bruised and battered from the blows she’d received during
her encounter with Orthon, summoned the Lunatrixes to help. Zoe didn’t resist, too exhausted to show any fear of the remarkable creatures. They carried her up to their mistress’s apartment and laid her on a sofa, where she immediately fell asleep, wrung out by sadness.
“Misunderstanding is about to experience mending!” exclaimed the Lunatrix, sounding even more enigmatic than ever.
“Oh, please, my Lunatrix,” said Dragomira, rebuking the small creature. “This is no time to speak in riddles!”
“Beware of judgement overflowing with errors and grudges, Old Gracious,” continued the small creature nonetheless. “Vast importance must be attributed to this girl because she contains Gracious blood…”
The Old Gracious frowned and slumped down onto the sofa opposite the one where the Lunatrixes had deposited Zoe. Despite her weakened condition and the scolding she’d just given her Lunatrix, she knew in her heart of hearts that this pitiable-looking girl was going to turn their lives upside down.
Dragomira was watching Zoe when she woke up, which made the girl feel rather awkward, even though she could see no hostility in Baba Pollock’s eyes.
“Hello, Zoe,” Dragomira said softly. “Are you feeling better?”
When Zoe replied “no” in an almost inaudible whisper, Dragomira leant towards her and, gently taking her hand, murmured kindly:
“I know you’re scared. I would be too if I were in your shoes. I just want to say that I don’t mean you any harm—quite the opposite, in fact. You can trust me.”
Feeling somewhat reassured and, above all, hopeful, Zoe glanced shyly at Dragomira.
“Why don’t you tell me everything from the beginning?” suggested the old lady.
After a brief hesitation, Zoe made up her mind. The words poured from her in their hundreds, tumbling over each other to get out. Her battered heart ached and she was racked by sobs as the painful memories tore her apart. But once she’d started, Zoe couldn’t stop. She kept talking through her tears while Dragomira stroked her hand, realizing the magnitude of the mistake mentioned by the Lunatrix.
“So your father isn’t Orthon McGraw then!” gasped Baba Pollock in amazement.
“No. He’s my great-uncle, my gran was his twin sister. He took me in when she died.”
She was now speaking in a tiny voice. Startled, Dragomira looked at her with even greater intensity and murmured:
“Reminiscens… Reminiscens was there, close by, and we didn’t realize.”
“She told me you’d known each other when you were young and that you alone could help me if I was ever in trouble. She really admired you, you know. I’ve got some photos of her, if you’d like to see them…”
“I’d love to,” whispered Dragomira.
Zoe took the photo album from her bag and handed it to Dragomira, who carefully opened it. The old lady turned the pages, her mind reeling. She kept looking from Zoe to the pictures and back again, her amazement increasing with every page.
“My gran knew a great deal about all kinds of things, particularly rocks and precious stones,” continued Zoe. “She was a diamond cutter. She’d always lived with me and my parents because she adored my dad. He was her only son. When he died, she focused all her energy and love on me. We’d both often hold back our tears to avoid upsetting the other. We had to be strong for each other and that was really hard. I’d lost my parents but she’d lost her son.”
“That’s awful… Is that your dad in these photos?” asked the old lady pointing to a page of the open album.
“Yes.”
“He was very handsome.”
Dragomira stared at the photos for a long while, her brow furrowed. Suddenly she was struck by an incredible thought and the blood drained from her face.
“I’d like to ask you something, Zoe,” she said, trembling. “What was your father’s name? And do you know his date of birth?”
“My dad was born on 29 March 1953 and his name was Jan Evanvleck.”
Dragomira sank back on the sofa. All these pieces of information came together in her mind, making her head spin and sucking her into a vortex created by over fifty years of repressed grief and untold secrets. The truth erupted like molten lava from a volcano.
“Leomido…” murmured Dragomira.
She looked at Zoe, her eyes full of tears.
“You haven’t lost everything, my child. When you knocked on my door, you found a family. Your own family.”
“I… I don’t understand!” stammered Zoe.
“My dear brother, Leomido, is your grandfather.”
2
A BRIEF RESPITE
IT WAS THE END OF TERM AT LAST AND THE STUDENTS OF St Proximus were letting off steam, racing around the courtyard shouting and laughing, their uniforms in disarray and their ties unknotted. Oksa Pollock and Gus Bellanger were more than ready for the holidays—they’d begun to think the school year would never end. So much had happened… What with the revelation of Oksa’s mysterious origins and the vaporization of Orthon McGraw, the Runaways’ sworn enemy, the last few months had held more than their fair share of exciting discoveries and terrifying ordeals. Determined not to let these thoughts dampen her high spirits, Oksa shook her head and began dragging Gus towards the fountain in the middle of the paved courtyard. Her friend struggled to free himself, laughing.
“It doesn’t take a genius to guess what you’re up to!”
“How could you say no to a refreshing dip in honour of this red-letter day!” exclaimed Oksa, pulling her friend by the arm with all her might.
“You’re making a big mistake if you think you can use brute force. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that nothing and no one can make me do something against my will!”
He brushed back a strand of dark hair with pretend arrogance. Weak with laughter, Oksa let go—and, losing her balance, crashed into the edge of the fountain.
“Ouch,” she yelped. “My elbow!”
A ring of blood appeared around the tear in her blouse.
“That really hurt,” she grumbled. “Blast! Look at the mess I’ve made of myself.”
Gus held out his hand to help her to her feet. She twisted round to take off the little bag she wore strung over her shoulder and handed it to him.
“Will you look after this for me while I go and clean myself up?” she asked.
“Wow… the Young Gracious’s magical accessories? What an honour!”
Oksa smiled at him and headed off in the direction of the grey stone cloister. Gus watched until she vanished into the shadowy staircase that led into the magnificent building.
Twenty minutes later, Gus was still there.
“Come on, Gus!” yelled a golden-haired student. “We’re going to play basketball.”
“No thanks, Merlin, I’m waiting for Oksa.”
Sitting there patiently against a low wall with nothing much to do, Gus gently pressed the bag. Inside he could feel a soft, round shape—the Tumble-Bawler. He hoped it wouldn’t kick up a fuss. As if it could read his mind, the Tumble-Bawler said:
“Don’t worry, young Master, discretion is my middle name! It has to be, given that high volume doesn’t make for a low profile.”
This quirky motto made Gus smile.
“Come on, Oksa… what on earth are you doing up there?” he grumbled after a few more moments.
“I can inform you that the Young Gracious is currently in the first-floor toilets, fifty-six yards north-north-west of here,” the small creature couldn’t help volunteering in a muffled voice.
Gus shuddered uneasily at the thought of someone overhearing this unconventional conversation, but all the other students were having too much fun to pay attention to him. Tired of waiting, he finally stood up and headed over to the staircase.
Walking along the deserted corridor, all he could hear were the sound of his own footsteps and the hubbub from the courtyard. A strange feeling came over him as he remembered the awful events that had taken place just four months earlier—Oksa injured, fiendish McGraw sh
owing his true colours, Miss Heartbreak… He couldn’t help glancing inside the lab as he walked past and, as he did so, he heard someone singing a sad, slow song that sounded like a lament. Intrigued, he turned the door handle—the lab was unlocked. Gus walked in and looked around. He couldn’t see anyone, but he could definitely hear someone as clearly as if they were standing right next to him. He opened Oksa’s bag: the Tumble-Bawler hadn’t made a sound.
“What’s going on? What is that noise?”
He walked round the room, clutching Oksa’s bag tightly. He looked under every desk and opened the door to the store room, then the large cupboard. Nothing. And yet he could still hear the soft, mournful weeping. He stopped searching and stood in the middle of the room listening hard, all his senses on the alert. He could now make out what sounded like faint words amongst the sobs.
“What are you saying? Where are you?” he stammered, looking around despite his fear.
He heard a voice which sounded as though it were coming from a long way off and yet was very close, saying:
Oksa Pollock: The Last Hope Page 48