The Devil's Apprentice Read online

  ‘I won’t be caught,’ said Ghost. ‘Whatever I do, no one’s going to know I done it. No one’ll be alive to know.’

  The look on his face was tight and set, and Cherub shivered at the sight of it.

  ‘What about us?’ said Mags. ‘We’ll know...’

  ‘You’re my people,’ Ghost said. ‘I’ll see you safe. We’ll get Tomkin out, then I’ll see you all safe.’

  ‘Won’t be no place safe,’ said Cherub, ‘if you do the Duke.’

  Ghost didn’t say Trust me because in the city no one trusted anyone. He just stared at them with those eyes that were like bits of agate, hard and dark and gleamy. You didn’t argue with a stare like that.

  Cherub muttered again: ‘I don’t like it,’ but it was only a mutter. He didn’t expect his leader to pay any attention.

  Ghost paid no attention. ‘The plan,’ he said.

  London, twenty-first century

  GAVIN LAY IN his bed at home, wishing he could stop thinking. He had gone beyond exhaustion into a zone of grey weariness where his thoughts trudged round and round in circles like prisoners in an exercise yard, going nowhere. Always the same thoughts, no matter how hard he tried not to think them. Round and round in narrowing circles, spiralling inward on the same moment, the same horror, playing it over and over again the more he struggled to pull his mind away. It was growing distant now, retreating into another dimension, but somehow that only made it worse, because he knew he was getting used to it, and it would settle into his memory and become a part of it, an old familiar ugliness. His history teacher had talked recently about the Nazi concentration camps, and the few who survived the daily round of brutality and privation, and the factory line of death. Human beings can get used to anything, he had said. I don’t need a little casket, Gavin thought in the wasteland of his fatigue and self-disgust. I’ll get used to it...

  He didn’t want to sleep, for fear of what he might dream.

  He had stuffed all his clothes in the washing machine as soon as he got home, a task he normally left for his mother. The rucksack was lost for good, with everything inside it, including the stun-gun. He wondered what the pirates would make of it – if they would figure out how it worked – but as it couldn’t be re-charged he reasoned it wouldn’t last long. He had the witch-girl’s Pan-pipes in the pocket of his jeans, but he didn’t know how to play them, or if the magic in their tune came from the pipes or the piper. In any case, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now.

  He thought he had been naïve, imagining he could help. No one can help anyone, he concluded gloomily. The witch-girl whose name he would probably never know had slit the boy’s throat, and the blood had spurted over him, like a fountain, like a baptism, and now he was getting used to it. He didn’t even feel sick any more.

  It was obscene.

  His mobile made the tinkly sound that indicated a text. It was gone one in the morning; who would text him at such an hour? He was half afraid to look at it, feeling it could only be bad news, an accusation, a condemnation...

  It was from Pen.

  She used predictive text, so every word was spelled out in full, and for an instant, reading it, he could almost hear her voice. ‘Expect you can’t sleep. Think about cooking. Think about chocolate.’

  She was right, of course. She was so right it was like a warm hand closing over his. He lay back and shut his eyes, thinking about cooking the way some people count sheep. Eventually, he slipped into a dream of chocolate sponge, only someone stuck a knife into it, and the sauce spattered out all over his clothes, wet and sticky and sticking to him, so he couldn’t scrub it off...

  ON SUNDAY NIGHT Jinx disappeared off to the country and Pen spent the evening with her grandmother, the first evening they had had alone together for some time. Eve, who had hoped to do some adult-child bonding, found it oddly disturbing. Pen had always been serious and diligent, not given to mood-switches, still little more than a child for all her gravitas and intellectual attainments. Now, she seemed suddenly to have grown up, grown far beyond her years, until she was almost a stranger – a creature of changing moods, abstracted or distracted, who would light up for no reason and then shut herself away behind a mask of thought. Her grandmother supposed it had to do with her new responsibilities in Temporal Crescent, or perhaps her friendship with Gavin (‘Not a boyfriend,’ Pen had assured her), and wondered if some of it was her own imagination. Teenagers could change so quickly, transforming overnight from loving lively children into brooding adolescents who binged on alcohol and ecstasy, anime and anomie, self-obsession and self-harm. They never told you what was wrong and then blamed you for not understanding. Mrs Harkness hadn’t believed Pen would go that way, but this new Pen appeared out of reach, unpredictable, capable of anything.

  When she tried to put her anxieties into words, they were brushed aside as unimportant.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about, Grandma. I’m fine. I’m always fine. I’m just getting older, like people do. It isn’t a big deal.’

  Which might be true, thought Mrs Harkness, but it didn’t reassure her at all.

  Jinx returned to Temporal Crescent on Monday morning. Eve had gone to work and Quorum was making omelettes for lunch. Pen was downstairs welcoming Hoover with more than her usual enthusiasm when the doorbell rang.

  Quorum went into the hallway with the dog trotting at his heels; Hoover’s ears were pricked and his hackles stirred as if at a faint cold breeze. Felinacious was curled in the chair beside Pen, overflowing the seat on two sides. Dog and cat had evidently agreed to a kind of tacit truce, where each loftily ignored the other at every possible opportunity.

  Quorum returned a minute later, looking slightly discomposed. ‘A young man to see you,’ he said, turning his attention back to the pan. ‘I told him you were at lunch, but he is most anxious to talk to you. Apparently, he comes from Whitbread Tudor Hayle – he’s taken over from poor Mr Patel.’

  Pen felt rather grand, being ‘at lunch’. ‘Perhaps he’d like to join me,’ she said.

  Hoover was blocking the kitchen door somehow, so the newcomer couldn’t enter immediately. There was a confused moment when dog and visitor seemed to be manoeuvring for position, impeding or being impeded, then Hoover stationed himself next to Pen as if on guard and the young man came in.

  ‘I gather you’re Penelope Tudor,’ he said. The hint of an accent coloured his speech, but what colour it was impossible to tell. ‘My name is Seth Kayser. I believe we may be distant cousins – on my mother’s side.’

  Pen said nothing at all. The omelette sat in front of her, untouched.

  The young man had red hair and the blanched complexion of the undead. He extended a hand towards her, a slender white hand with tapering fingers, the hand of a poet – or a poisoner.

  Pen didn’t take it.

  Quorum asked the visitor: ‘Would you care for some tea? Or coffee?’

  Slowly, her brain re-engaged, wheels creaking into action. For her, it had been two days ago; for him, more than five hundred years. He doesn’t recognise me, she thought. Not yet, anyway. He doesn’t remember...

  She thought blankly that this was worse than the car accident. This was the world beyond the doors reaching into Now, past invading present, evil coming home to roost...

  All the way home.

  She wondered how he could live so long. Hadn’t Azmordis said something to him about immortality, and slavery, and doom? Perhaps he had been transformed into something more spirit than flesh, the demon servant of a demonic master. He still looked human, or nearly so, but she knew enough to realise that in the otherworld of magic and darkness, appearances can deceive. She sensed it was vital not to betray herself, not to show foreknowledge or fear. But she couldn’t take his hand. Her small freckled face was closed and secretive by construction if not intent; the blandness of youth hid many things. The man who called himself Seth Kayser saw a shy, slightly awkward girl whose image bothered him for reasons he couldn’t quite place, but he register
ed no untoward reaction, no shadow of a lie. He had had little to do with the innocent; he did not know how much such innocence can conceal.

  He accepted coffee, apologised briefly for the disruption, and seated himself opposite Pen.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about Number 7. We need to discuss our options with a view to maximising the financial benefit...’

  There was a muffled gnashing noise which Pen hoped was covered by the clatter of crockery and something thumped against her hip. The Teeth had taken to living in her pocket; she realised they were excited by the proximity of a former victim. She slapped her hand over them and produced a taut smile.

  ‘What do you mean?’ She knew she sounded stupid but it was difficult to concentrate with a set of rabid dentures champing against her palm.

  ‘I believe the house has been vacant for some time but it’s a top-of-the-range property. Even in the current market there should be no problem finding a tenant at a suitably high rent. I might possibly be able to arrange something myself–’

  ‘No,’ said Pen.

  ‘I don’t think you understand the situation. As executors, we have a duty to manage the estate in any way that will augment its value. You’re a minor; you have what might be termed an honorary role. I’m sure you enjoy living here and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t continue to do so, but it really would be best if you left business matters up to me.’

  ‘No,’ said Pen. This was the law, and the law was one area where she was always at home. ‘Actually, I understand the situation very well. I’m too young to sign cheques or anything like that but you can’t let Number 7 without my permission and I won’t give it so that’s that.’

  Belatedly aware she sounded both abrupt and rude, she added: ‘I’m sorry.’

  The Teeth had lapsed into stillness but Hoover put his chin on the table and glared menacingly. Quorum, conscious of undercurrents but unclear what they were, busied himself preparing coffee.

  Seth Kayser looked straight into Pen’s eyes. ‘Why?’

  The familiar worm of response wriggled inside her, but she knew it now for the worm it was. He was as cool as an iced drink on a hot day, the kind of coolness that would freeze your fingers to the glass. But he was no longer the prince, scheming to seize his kingdom, just a solicitor with a slick manner and a designer suit and all the usual jargon.

  ‘It would be against the expressed wish of Andrew Pyewackett,’ she explained. ‘He expressed his wishes very strongly: Quorum will confirm that.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the butler, setting the cafetière on the table.

  ‘As executors,’ she went on, warming to her theme, ‘our first duty is to act for the deceased, in accordance with his wishes. That is what I intend to do.’

  ‘I repeat, you are a minor. I could insist–’

  ‘I cannot imagine your firm would want their reputation sullied with such a conflict,’ Quorum interceded gently.

  The lawyer’s gaze narrowed. ‘I would hope,’ he said, still addressing himself principally to Pen, ‘that this matter could be resolved without conflict of any kind. As I said, we are family, if distant. Our common colouring gives that away. I wouldn’t like you to see me as an enemy.’

  Cards on the table, thought Pen. He’ll remember me... sooner or later.

  The later the better.

  ‘I don’t know of any relationship,’ she declared. ‘The world is full of red-haired people who aren’t my cousins.’

  ‘I can prove it, you know,’ he said lightly. ‘I have the documentation. My mother’s birth certificate...’

  Pen shrugged. She knew he was lying, documents or no, and he probably knew that she knew, but she wanted to keep him in a state of uncertainty for a while longer. If she could.

  He took a mouthful of coffee by way of courtesy and got to his feet.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘were you well acquainted with my predecessor? Jasveer Patel.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Pen. ‘He was nice, though.’

  ‘I was told the accident happened just outside here: is that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Pen said shortly.

  ‘It must have been very distressing for you,’ Seth Kayser said in a voice as smooth as pouring cream.

  ‘Yes,’ said Pen.

  ‘Accidents can happen so easily.’ The threat was butterfly-light, soft as a spring breeze. ‘You should be careful.’

  ‘I think you should leave now,’ Quorum said very firmly.

  And then Jinx walked in – Jinx with her spiked hair standing out in all directions, her mascara-smudges, her pre-lunch expression of Neanderthal sullenness. She acknowledged the visitor with a grunt and sat down in the chair he had vacated. The tension trickled out of the moment like water from a cracked glass.

  ‘Scrambled eggs,’ she said, observing Pen’s virgin plate. ‘Yuk. I hate the runny bit in the middle.’ She reached for the coffee.

  Quorum escorted the visitor to the front door.

  ‘I DON’T LIKE it,’ Quorum said. ‘Mr Pyewackett wouldn’t have liked it. He didn’t approve of this sort of thing.’

  ‘He isn’t here,’ Pen said, ‘and we are, and we’re the ones in a mess. Anyhow, Jinx knows what she’s doing... don’t you?’

  ‘Sort of,’ said Jinx, who was selecting a bowl from a cupboard full of crockery. ‘Just don’t wash up that coffee cup. Don’t even tip the coffee away... Don’t you watch CSI?’

  ‘What’s CSI got to do with it?’ asked Pen, temporarily baffled.

  ‘DNA. Cesare – Seth Kayser – whoever he is – even if he’s one of the Serafain, he’s still human, or part human. I don’t think humanity is something you can ever completely get rid of. His saliva should be on the cup, and in the coffee. I’m not sure if it’ll be any use, but it’s worth a try.’

  ‘You’re going to do some kind of scientific test?’ There was relief in Quorum’s voice. ‘Forgive me: I thought you were about to attempt... well, magic.’

  ‘Of course I’m going to do magic,’ Jinx said. ‘I’m crap at science. I’m crap at magic too, if it comes to that, but I had a brilliant teacher.’

  ‘But...’ Quorum looked daunted.

  ‘What’s DNA got to do with magic?’ Pen said.

  ‘Everything.’ Having chosen a plain china bowl of suitable size, Jinx deposited it on the table with a clunk! that made the butler wince. ‘Look, when you make an image of someone, you need some of their hair, or blood, or whatever, and then it becomes that person, and you can do spells on it. It’s called sympathetic magic. It’s very very ancient, and it’s based on the idea that your blood and your hair are you. Modern science proves that’s right – DNA. The... the formula for who you are is in every bit of your body. Right?’

  ‘I see,’ said Pen. ‘It’s like old herbal remedies connecting to today’s medicine. Even a long time ago, people knew more than we think they did. But you aren’t going to make a... a voodoo doll, are you?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Jinx. ‘I’m scrying. That works in the same sort of way. If you want to see something personal – something about yourself, or people really close to you – you use your own blood. If it’s someone else, someone distant, you need theirs. The books always say blood, because it’s magic, and magic tends to be a bit primitive and melodramatic about things, but I’m pretty sure any physical stuff will do. My great-grandmother used hair once.’

  ‘And you’re going to use coffee?’ said Quorum.

  ‘Saliva.’ Jinx poured water from the kettle into the bowl. ‘This may not work – it probably won’t – I’m just trying it out, okay? Please shut up now. I have to concentrate.’

  She added a few drops from a couple of dark smeary bottles with handwritten labels which she had brought up from the country. She was reciting a chant, or a charm, but in a low mumble, inaudible to her listeners. Then she dripped a little of the coffee onto the surface of the water, where it fanned outwards in a brown film. There was a stagnant, vegetal odour, like a brackish pool, oddly mixed with coffee.r />
  ‘Can you see anything?’ Quorum said.

  This time, Jinx didn’t answer. She was bending forward over the bowl, scowling horribly. When she straightened up her face was greenish and she seemed short of breath.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Pen. ‘You look sick.’

  ‘I feel sick. It’s the smell. I must have done something wrong: it doesn’t usually ming like that. Hang on; I’d better get rid of it.’ Another mumble of magic words, or what Pen assumed were magic words, and Jinx tipped the murky liquid down the sink.

  ‘Well?’ Pen resumed. ‘What did you see?’

  ‘The Dark Tower... I think. A skyscraper going up and up, with thin wisps of cloud spreading round it like ripples in the air. It looked like the Dark Tower, but it was a bit blurred. There were birds circling the topmost spire, very big birds, bigger than eagles, though it was difficult to be sure ’cos there was nothing to compare them with. They might have been Nightwings. Then one of them flew away – it was flying over a city, London I suppose. I saw the river shining, and the scribble-pattern of streets, and lumpy masses of buildings, and the giant Eye–’

  ‘The Eye of Sauron?’ said Pen on a note of disbelief. She had sat through part of Lord of the Rings on Matty Featherstone’s DVD player, mostly with her attention elsewhere.

  ‘The London Eye,’ Jinx snapped. ‘I expect. A big wheel, not specially fiery. Anyhow... There was a muddled bit where the bird was swooping down very fast, then it landed on a rooftop, and folded its wings, and didn’t look like a bird any more.’

  ‘Did it look like Cesare?’

  ‘More or less. The picture quality was rubbish. The thing is, I saw part of the street below, and I think it was here. He was on the roof – here. Or maybe Number 7. He seemed to be peering over the edge, like he was checking out the upper windows, looking for a way in.’

  ‘He will enter there at his peril,’ Quorum intoned.