Gallows at Twilight Page 4

  Chapter 4

  Lair of the Skinwalker

  ‘Brag, will you take my dad back to the car?’

  ‘Course I will, Jake. I’ll carry him real gentle. You want me to stay with him?’

  Pandora shook her head. ‘I’ve given him a sedative. He’ll sleep now until late morning, and I’m sure he’ll be safe enough outside the forest. If we’re going to continue with tonight’s insanity … ’

  Jake and Rachel nodded grimly.

  ‘ … then we may still have need of that club of yours, Brag Badderson.’

  Brag picked Adam lightly from the ground and carried him out of the clearing. Jake thought how small and frail his father looked, cradled in the troll’s big arms. Images flitted through his head: his dad waiting for him at the gate after his first day at school; scooping him up and comforting him after a fall; looking for imaginary monsters under his bed before kissing him goodnight. Where was that strong, fear less man now?

  In a small voice, he asked, ‘Is there really no cure?’

  ‘None that I can find, honey,’ Pandora said. ‘I’ve spent weeks looking through occult libraries. I’ve asked every healer, witch doctor, shaman, and wise woman I could find. All they could tell me was that it’s a miracle Adam isn’t dead already. He’s tougher than a one-eared alley cat, your daddy, but the truth is, he’s ailing fast.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ Jake asked.

  ‘As I said, your dad swore me to secrecy. Told me that he didn’t want you distracted from your magical training.’

  ‘That’s bull,’ Jake snapped. ‘I could’ve helped you talk to those healers, research the hex, anything. Instead you let me think that it wasn’t getting any worse; that there was a cure out there.’

  ‘I never made any claims.’

  ‘But you let me think he was OK, Pandora. You know you did.’

  Pandora lowered her eyes.

  ‘We’ve got a few weeks,’ Rachel said, taking Jake’s hand. ‘We’ll find something. There’s always hope, right?’

  Pandora managed to hitch a smile to her lips.

  ‘Sure, sweetness. There’s always hope.’

  Jake turned away. ‘We better get moving.’

  They hurried across the glade and plunged back into the forest. Jake released Rachel’s hand and ran on ahead. The brittle, yellow grass lashed against his legs and a trace of the banshees’ howl throbbed in his ears. He concentrated on these little twists of pain, not wanting to think about what Pandora had told him.

  At last, he broke through the undergrowth and stood panting in the moonlight. The grass rustled behind him. A second later, Rachel and Pandora were at his side. Their eyes swept across the long stretch of lawn and up to the old manor house. Hunched at the top of a small slope, Havlock Grange glared back at them, the broken windows that were its eyes seeming to challenge the trespassers.

  There was no sign of movement in the house or grounds. Keeping close to the cover of the forest, Jake and his friends made their way towards the Grange. The sky darkened and shadows rolled across the lawn. For a moment, Jake thought that the banshees had returned, but it was only a blanket of heavy-bellied clouds moving in from the north and veiling the moon. The sky grumbled. Splodges of rain smacked against the trees.

  The lawn ended at the foot of a wide stone staircase flanked by a pair of weatherworn griffins, their wings draped with moss. The steps led straight to the door of the Grange.

  ‘OK.’ Jake licked the rain from his lips. ‘We shoot up those stairs as quickly as we can. Once we’re inside, we find Simon and then get the hell out. Not much of a plan, I know, but we’re operating in the dark here. We know Roland Grype’s been left behind with Simon—’

  ‘That man and I are old friends.’ Pandora smirked. ‘We won’t have much trouble with him.’

  ‘Probably not,’ Jake agreed, ‘but it’s unlikely the Demon Father will have left the witch as his only defence. If the banshees were anything to go by, we’ll have our work cut out. Now, I just want to say something before we go on. This whole thing was my idea, my stupid plan—if you guys wanna bail…’

  ‘Honey, I don’t mean to be rude, but sometimes you’re as dumb as your daddy. Now let’s get that poor boy outta that ugly house.’

  There was no more talk. The friends made a break from the forest and swept up the staircase.

  The rain strengthened, lashed across the face of the house and drowned out the rush of feet on stone. Jake glanced up and saw the letters carved into the lintel above the great oak door—

  HAVLOCK GRANCE

  1623

  HOSTES MEI TERRITURI GUGIENT

  ‘The Crowden family motto,’ Pandora panted. ‘My Latin’s pretty rusty, but I think it means “Mine enemies will flee in Terror”.’

  ‘Not exactly welcoming. Still, I guess it fits in with the architecture.’

  Rachel was right. Time had worked its own black magic on the house. Four hundred years of wind and rain had wrenched tiles from the roof and softened the hard edges of the stonework. With its skin of dark, crumbling brick, its broken back and shattered windows, Havlock Grange looked like a crippled giant that had lain down to die upon the hillside.

  Pandora pushed against the door. ‘Locked. No surprise there.’

  ‘I’ll try my magic,’ Jake said.

  ‘Or maybe we should just cut to the chase!’ a voice roared.

  Bare feet boomed up the staircase. Jake turned in time to see one of the stone griffins tremble off its plinth and shatter onto the ground.

  Before any of them could stop him, Brag Badderson whirled his club overhead and launched it at the door. The thunder-crack of stone against wood rang in their ears as Brag’s club smashed a path into the house. Dust belched into the air, swirled and settled. Tiny splinters of oak, three useless hinges, and a battered lion’s head knocker were all that remained of the great door.

  ‘Well,’ Jake breathed, ‘they definitely know we’re here now. We better move quickly.’

  He led the way into Havlock Grange.

  EVIL.

  The force sent Jake reeling back through the doorway. He inadvertently knocked Rachel and Pandora aside, lost his footing, and hit the ground hard. Brag caught Jake’s collar between his fingers and lifted him onto his feet. Jake shook his head.

  ‘The demon’s not here,’ he strode forward, ‘but he’s left his stink behind.’

  The others followed him into the Great Hall.

  The room certainly lived up to its name—Jake reckoned you could just about squeeze a Boeing 747 inside, and still have enough room left over to host a medieval banquet. The hall’s arched ceiling, ribbed with wooden beams the size of ship masts, reached a height of well over twenty metres. In the middle of the ceiling there was a ragged hole through which the rain poured and the moon lanced down like a giant spotlight. Broken bricks and smashed tiles lay in a heap directly below the hole.

  Jake paused. Listened. Apart from the rain that drummed through the ceiling, nothing seemed to stir the stillness. He motioned for the others to follow.

  ‘Rachel, you and Brag search downstairs. Pandora, we’ll check upstairs. You’ve got your phone with you, Rach? Two bleeps and we know you’ve found Simon. It keeps ringing, you’re in trouble. Same goes for us.’

  While Brag and Rachel disappeared into one of the downstairs rooms, Jake and Pandora mounted the grand staircase and stepped into a long, gloomy corridor. They lit their torches and began to search the first floor, room by room. Doors opened onto empty bedchambers. Torchlight flashed across dusty drapes, broken furniture, shattered glass.

  ‘We haven’t seen that weasel-faced librarian yet,’ Pandora said. ‘Roland Grype. Maybe he’s made a bolt for it and taken Simon with him.’

  ‘I hope not,’ Jake muttered, ‘or this will all have been for nothing.’

  He opened another door, stepped inside, swept his torch around.

  ‘Empty. Pandora, I think we should—’

  The door slammed
shut.

  ‘JAKE!’ Pandora’s fists shook the woodwork.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Jake shouted, tugging at the door handle. ‘Must’ve been a draught.’

  ‘It’s jammed. I’m gonna fetch Brag. Will you be OK for five minutes?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Pandora’s footsteps echoed away down the corridor.

  With nothing to do but wait, Jake decided to explore.

  Like the other chambers on this floor, the room was large, damp, and uncarpeted. Three narrow windows, hung with strips of mouldy curtain, overlooked the garden. Jake played the light of his torch over the remains of a huge oak dining table that lay in pieces in the centre of the room. In one corner, he found a cauldron in which a brown-speckled spider had spun a graveyard for flies. The sight made him feel a little sick and he turned his torch on the fireplace. Grotesque faces with chipped noses and toothless mouths stared out from the columns.

  ‘Is—is someone there?’

  Jake spun round. His hands trembled and the yellow halo of his torchlight shivered across a faded curtain at the far end of the room.

  ‘Who is it?’ the voice pleaded from behind the curtain. ‘Is it … is it you, father?’

  Jake had to resist the urge to run across the room and tear back the drape. This could be yet another trap. But surely there was no mistaking that gruff bark of a voice? He approached, hand cupped, magic tingling at the tips of his fingers. He felt grateful that, this time at least, his powers were responding.

  A silhouette wavered across the curtain.

  ‘Is it … ? NO!’ the voice bellowed. ‘You won’t trick me again … ’ And now with a crumb of hope—‘But is it?’

  The shadow of a hand reached out, like a reflection of Jake’s.

  The boy behind the curtain stepped forward.

  ‘Is it really you?’

  Jake grasped the curtain. Blue light danced in his palm.

  ‘My friend … ’

  He tore it back.

  ‘ … Jake?’

  ‘Simon!’

  For a long time, the two friends just stared at each other.

  Simon was the first to speak—

  ‘I knew you’d come.’

  Jake shook his head. ‘I’m sorry it’s taken so long. I tried …

  I … ’

  Simon’s arms locked around him, making it difficult for Jake to breathe.

  ‘We need to get moving,’ Jake wheezed. ‘Are you strong enough to walk?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Jake nodded. He freed himself from Simon’s hug and headed for the door.

  ‘I feel as fit as a fiddle. Strong as an ox.’

  Jake looked back. It struck him immediately—this picture wasn’t right. Under his ragged clothes, Simon Lydgate seemed to have kept his big, robust frame. Even if the Demon Father had kept him well fed, Jake would have expected the strain of his imprisonment to have had an impact on his friend. Simon’s eyes were clear and bright, showing no fear at all. The smile spread evenly across his lips; nothing like the crooked grin of old.

  ‘Then why didn’t you try to escape? If you’re fit and strong, why didn’t you make a run for it? You weren’t tied up. You could’ve smashed a window and climbed out.’

  Simon’s smile broadened.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Simon Lydgate.’ And now the smile became a leer. ‘Really, Jake—who else would I be?’

  At that moment, the moon found a chink in the clouds. It flashed through the window and across the face of the stranger. Simon Lydgate’s green eyes dissolved into smoky red orbs, the colour of coals at the heart of a fire.

  Skinwalker.

  Jake didn’t need to consult his dark catalogue. The name of the creature popped straight into his head. In the legends of the Navajo Indians of south-west America, the skinwalkers or the yee naaldlooshi, were black-hearted witches who sacrificed members of their own family in order to gain mastery of their supernatural powers. The most important of these powers was the ability to take on the form of any person or animal of their choosing. The only way to see beyond the disguise was to catch the scarlet glow of the witch’s eyes in the moonlight.

  The skinwalker began to close in on Jake.

  ‘I’m your friend,’ it purred in its stolen voice. ‘Why do you fear me?’

  Jake retreated until his back hit the wall.

  ‘I’m Simon. Here, touch me, see that I’m real.’

  ‘I know you’re real.’

  The witch stopped an arm’s length short of Jake. His movements were lithe, almost feline.

  ‘But you’re not Simon. You’re … ’

  Names. For the Navajo people, names possessed power. If you named the skinwalker to its face, the legends said that the witch would grow sick and die. Jake didn’t know the name of this dark witch, but he knew what he was …

  ‘I name you—skinwalker!’

  The predator smiled his last smile. Then his lips fell and every scrap of humanity washed out of his face. The red light in his eyes dimmed. He became as cold and as still as a statue.

  Muffled voices called out. Rachel—

  ‘Jake, we’re here. Are you all right?’

  Jake eyed the frozen figure. He sidestepped it and went to the door.

  ‘Is Brag there? Tell him to club away! I want to get out of here.’

  ‘Right-o, stand back!’

  The door leapt in its frame.

  ‘Bloody enchanted doors!’ Brag bellowed. ‘This one’s been hexed good and proper!’

  An icy hand fell on Jake’s shoulder.

  ‘You named me, child. Now you will see me.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Pandora cried. ‘Jake, who’s in there with you?’

  Jake tried to answer. All that came out of his mouth was wasted breath. What he witnessed in the pale moonlight was so horrible he could not hope to describe it.

  The skinwalker’s mouth opened wide. In the pink dimness at the very back of its throat, just beyond the tongue and behind a pair of saliva-slick tonsils, Jake saw a single dark eye blink out at him. He shuddered—the Navajo witch was actually living somewhere inside this body! CRACK— the sound of a jaw dislocating. All around the mouth the lips had stretched taut, like rubber bands that were about to snap.

  Two fingers emerged from the throat. Others followed, until a pair of russet-coloured hands had grasped the corners of the mouth. The fingers flexed, tensed, and strengthened their grip. Dry and creaky—the sound of skin stretched to breaking point. Warm and wet—the glug of the skinwalker drawing breath from deep inside this borrowed body.

  Rooted to the spot by a fearful fascination, Jake could only watch as the witch unzipped his skin suit. With a sudden tug, the mouth ripped apart at the corners. Blood burst from the torn flesh in a fine spray that doused Jake’s face. The two tears that had started at the corners of the mouth scissored their way down the neck in rough zigzags. Eventually they met at the chest and came together to form a single and ever-widening gash. The skinwalker’s hands slipped along the raggedy lips of flesh. They tightened their grip again, and he peeled away the rest of the body.

  Skin rolled down like a sock stripped from a foot. With it came the rags that ‘Simon’ had been wearing. Both flesh and clothes snagged for a moment around the hips, and the witch had to push and tug them free. Once it reached his legs, the skin suit slipped down easily enough. Finally, it lay upon the floor in a curled, withered pile, like sloughed snakeskin.

  Somehow Jake managed to speak.

  ‘Is Simon dead?’

  The little witch blinked up at him. Naked from the waist up, he wore a pair of faded blue jeans with a turquoise pendant tied to one of the belt loops.

  ‘Your friend lives,’ he said, wiping blood from his dark eyes. ‘I can only replicate the form of living creatures.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Why do you need to know? You will never see him again.’

  The Navajo stepped out of the skin pile and strode back to the c
urtain. He squatted down and picked something from the ground. ‘You will die here.’

  The door splintered under the continued barrage of Brag’s club, but still it held.

  ‘Your friends will not be in time to save you, Jake Harker. The Master himself enchanted that door.’

  The skinwalker stepped forward. In his hand he held a short-handled axe decorated along the haft with eagle feathers. He pulled his arm back and launched the tomahawk. The weapon scythed the air and buried itself in the wall a centimetre from Jake’s head.

  ‘Summon your magic, boy,’ the witch advised, ‘or you will die.’

  The Navajo was strong and quick. Big muscles ran along his arms, across his torso, and down his back. Even without his dark powers, he would have been a formidable opponent.

  He made a dash for Jake and, in one smooth motion, wrenched the tomahawk from the wall. The skinwalker’s elbow smashed into Jake’s jaw and sent him sprawling into the fireplace. Jake cracked his head against the grate. Pain and panic rattled through him. He looked up into a victorious face, slick with blood.

  ‘I cannot believe the Master has gone to so much trouble over such a miserable child.’ The skinwalker stood astride Jake, feet planted wide, tomahawk raised. ‘He told me that you had bested powerful witches! Told of how you stopped the Demontide and destroyed the Door! What has happened to you, little one?’

  Jake held out his hand. The smallest of blue flames crackled in his palm.

  ‘Is that it?’ the witch roared. ‘Is that your power?’

  A sneer rumpled the skinwalker’s lips. He breathed in and prepared to strike.

  Jake turned his face away.

  And that was when he saw the ash in the grate. The pages of his dark catalogue whispered to him. In the legends of the Navajo, one of the few ways a skinwalker could be killed was with a bullet dipped in white ash. Jake clung to that fragment of myth. Willed it to be true. He made a grab for the poker that was lying nearby and thrust it into the grate, baptizing its iron head with white ash.

  A split second before the tomahawk fell, Jake rolled to one side. The axe clanged against the fireplace’s stone surround. Bent double, arms outstretched, the witch still had hold of the tomahawk. His flank was vulnerable. Jake took his chance and plunged the ash-coated poker between the skinwalker’s ribs.