The Demon's Lexicon (17 page)

“Good luck with that one. I just strangled a wolf to death five minutes ago,” Nick said gruffly. Alan smiled, and they both understood that Nick had given in.

Just on this one thing. He'd come and get a talisman if it made Alan feel better, but he wasn't going to put up with any of this nonsense about Jamie going first. Alan had sacrificed enough for Jamie already.

“C'mon,” said Alan, and Nick moved to follow him.

“This is just a thought,” Jamie called after them. “But while you're up there, you might see if you can find a shirt.”

 

When they went into Alan's room, Nick could not help casting an uneasy eye over Alan's bookshelves. He hadn't had a chance to put Alan's precious photo back in its hiding place yet, and he had a sudden moment of foreboding. If Alan tried to sneak a look at the stupid picture he liked gazing at so much, he'd find out what Nick had done.

It didn't matter if he did find out. Nick had a right to discover the truth, but somehow he didn't like the idea of how Alan would look at him if he knew.

He turned deliberately away from the bookcase and occupied himself shrugging into one of Alan's baggy old T-shirts, lying slung over a chair. He went to lean against the wall, looking out of the window where the sun was going down, the sky brimming dark blue over the gray roofs of London.

Alan knelt down by his wardrobe and took out the box where he kept his protective charms, beginning to sift through them slowly and thoughtfully as if he was telling rosary beads. Or as if he was afraid to look up.

“I'm serious about taking Jamie's mark off,” he said slowly.

“You're being stupid.”

“You don't understand—”

“Yeah, I don't understand. I don't understand why you're being stupid!”

Nick's voice rose in a shout, a harsh, flat sound like a whip cracking or a door slamming. If he'd been shouting at anyone but Alan he knew he would have seen the effect of the shout: seen the sound seep into their bones and make them shudder, make them give in.

It was different with Alan. Threatening him wouldn't work; he didn't seem to care about saving himself. He would have to find some other way to make Alan do what he wanted. Nick looked at his brother and suddenly felt icy calm.

He knew what threat to use.

“Here it is,” Alan said in a quiet, pleased voice, as if Nick hadn't shouted at him a moment ago. He got to his feet with his usual care, a flash of pain drawing a deep line between his brows, then smiled and limped over to Nick.

The talisman was dangling from Alan's left wrist like a bracelet. There was a crawling sensation of dread in Nick's stomach just looking at it, but when Alan beckoned, he bowed his head and let his brother slip the talisman around his neck. He felt like an animal going back into harness.

The talisman burned where it touched his skin. Nick set his teeth at the return of the dull, constant pain and looked into Alan's face, which showed uncomplicated relief.

“Do you know what I'll do if you don't take that mark off?” he asked. He did not shout this time. He lowered his voice so it was a very private and personal threat, a soft promise of pain.

Alan recognized it. “Nick,” he said, startled and a little pleading.

Nick had to make him understand.

“You care so much about Mum? She was an Obsidian Circle magician. She still has the sigil. Her lifeblood would save you.”

Alan took a quick, unsteady breath, his thin chest rising and falling sharply. He was trembling.

“I'd do it,” Nick swore to him. “I'd trade her for you. I'd do it in a
heartbeat
. I won't let you die!”

Alan's mouth twisted viciously. “Why not? More useful to you than Olivia, am I?”

He was watching Nick in the same hurt, horror-struck way he had when he'd seen Nick with the magician. Nick looked away and out of the window again, to where the sun was sinking, shadow closing its claws over the houses one by one. He fought with black incomprehension: Alan wanted a particular response from him, and he didn't know what it was.

“Well—well, you are more useful than she is,” he said haltingly.

“How can you—,” Alan began in a furious voice.

He was interrupted by the sound of Mae screaming. It wasn't a scream for help. It was the scream of someone in pain.

Alan palmed the knife from his wrist sheath and held it out before Nick could say a word. Nick closed his fingers around the hilt and ran, taking the stairs three at a time, and bolted into the sitting room, throwing open the door and running almost directly into Mum.

She flung up an arm as if Nick was the threat.

“Don't touch me!”

“I don't want to touch you!” Nick snarled. “What happened?”

Mum didn't bother replying. It was pretty obvious what had happened. Their sitting room was torn apart. Someone had broken the window and shredded the rug. Mae was lying at an awkward angle on the floor with blood all over her face, struggling to get up as Jamie tried to push her down. The chair that had contained Gerald the magician was on its side, the chains that had bound him were a gleaming silver path that pointed to the shattered window.

Outside the window and utterly beyond reach was a huge bird, the curving shape of amber wings outlined in the setting sun, flaring gold as he flew. Nick imagined that its talons were fairly impressive as well, judging by what the creature had done to the rug and Mae's face.

“Mae,” Nick said. “Are you—”

Alan stumbled down the last step on the stairs and was almost instantly at Mae's side. Nick fell silent and went for the first-aid kit, passing it to Alan without a word. Alan accepted it with a nod, murmuring comforting nonsense to Mae as he taped the cut across her cheek carefully closed. Mae stopped
fighting to get up and bore the taping without a sound, and Nick watched her whisper reassurance back to Alan, watched their shared smiles.

“I'm really okay. Thanks,” Mae murmured, low and grateful, Alan's musician's fingers held lightly against the curve of her jaw. “He turned into a freaking bird. I couldn't believe it!” Her voice turned frustrated. “I couldn't stop him. I couldn't do a thing.”

“It's not your fault,” Alan assured her.

He was right. There was nothing she could have done. If Gerald could transform into an animal, he had a whole lot more power than Nick had thought. He had so much power that it must mean he'd wanted to be captured.

He'd wanted to be brought here.

They'd been played for fools. And that wasn't even the worst part.

Nick gazed with building fury at his brother, bent solicitously over Mae and acting so very concerned.

He said, “You did this.”

Alan stood up at once. “Come outside,” he said, in that calm, reasonable voice of his. Nick strode forward and grabbed Alan's elbow, dragging him to the front door and only stopping when his brother almost fell on the threshold.

He steadied Alan with his free hand and then stepped back. For a moment his throat was too tight to find words.

“You did this,” he repeated at last.

He remembered Alan's face, smoothing into a bland mask when Nick refused to let him take Jamie's mark off.
We'll only be gone a minute. I don't want you in any danger.
He'd been worried, and he'd used that to make Nick do exactly what he wanted. Once he'd brought Nick upstairs, he'd kept him upstairs with
that little line about Jamie. He'd known Nick would argue with him.

He'd deliberately let the magician go, and now he was facing Nick with that careful look on his face, trying to calm Nick down without actually giving anything away, waiting to see what lie would work this time.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you got the only two people capable of restraining that magician out of the room! You did it, and you did it on purpose, because you wanted to keep the demon's mark that is going to kill you. I know all that. I just don't know why. And I want to know why, Alan. I'm going to know why.”

Alan looked at Nick's face and obviously saw that denials weren't going to do him any good.

“Because of what that messenger said,” he answered quietly. “Because I have a plan. Would you rather I didn't have one?”

Nick grabbed the collar of Alan's shirt and pushed him up against the door frame with one hand.

“I'd rather you didn't get yourself killed!”

Alan looked up at him, pale and silent, and Nick realized how this would look to anyone watching. A crippled boy, stumbling and obviously upset, being menaced by a vicious thug. He
felt
vicious; he would've hit Alan if that would have made him stop.

Only he knew his brother. Pain didn't scare him, and nothing could make him stop.

“Mum's not worth this,” he snarled. “Nothing's worth this.”

“Some things are.”

Nick did not shake him, no matter how much he was tempted. He let go of his brother's shirt and stepped back. He thought Alan looked a little relieved.

“It won't take long for Gerald to report back to the Obsidian Circle,” Nick said. “They'll be coming soon. We can't be here. Do you have a plan for that?”

He glared at his brother, and Alan looked back, pained but still calm, still plotting something.

“I do,” said Alan. “I told you I needed to see what Merris was experimenting with. She lives on the Isle of Wight. We can go there. We can escape the magicians that way.”

Nick looked away from him then, leaning his cheek against the steel door frame and looking out onto the narrow gray street, just another street among the hundreds of streets he had lived on and would never see again. Alan was still thinking about the best way to help Mum, and then it would be the best way to help Jamie, and all Nick wanted to do was take Alan and run. If they kept moving, maybe the magicians wouldn't get a chance to put the last mark on Alan and finish him off. Nick didn't care about anything else.

He opened his mouth and could not find words.

Alan held him in that moment of silence with a look.

“Nick,” he said quietly. “I'm going. You can't stop me. If you raise a hand to me I'll shoot you in the leg. I'm going to Merris's because I need her help and nothing you can say will change my mind. You don't have to come with me.”

“Yes, I do,” Nick snapped.

What a stupid thing for Alan to say. They had never been separated for longer than those few days last Christmas; Nick always knew where Alan was and usually knew that he was close. That was how things were and how they were going to stay. Alan was his brother, and if he was set on carrying out his little plan, risking himself to save Mum, then Nick had to be with him to make sure he was safe.

Alan looked almost too worn out to smile but he did anyway, a faint, sweet smile that lingered in his eyes. “All right.”

He nodded slightly, as if they were businessmen who had come to an understanding. Then he turned and went back into the hall, limping a little more than usual, as if he was carrying something heavy. Nick followed him. It was clear that Alan needed to be watched. He'd meant what he'd told Alan: He would sacrifice Mum if he had to.

It didn't matter what Alan wanted. It only mattered that Alan lived.

T
HEY WERE ALL IN THE CAR FIVE MINUTES LATER,
abandoning everything that would not fit into the couple of old schoolbags they had in the boot. Nick had secured his new favorite sword at his belt, and Alan had slipped his family pictures, and the book with the hidden picture inside, into one of the bags.

“What's that?” Nick had said, perversely wanting to see Alan lie to him.

“Just something I'm reading,” Alan answered with a wry, plausible smile. Nick was suddenly reminded of Gerald the magician and had to turn away.

Now Camden was passing them by so fast that streets and lights had turned into a multicolored river, flashing yellow and orange over a smooth stream of gray.

Nick turned the car south toward the M3, hearing a clank as he moved into fourth. He'd have to see to the car sometime, though it was unlikely they would have time for mechanics in the near future.

It would take about two hours to get to Southampton if they were lucky with traffic, and then they could take the ferry to the Isle of Wight.

Nick was still thinking about the traffic when Alan said in a soft voice, “Nick, you get horribly seasick.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Nick said.

He didn't remember ever being on a boat. Running from magicians did not leave a lot of time for sailing the high seas, but the idea sounded implausible. Nick was never sick, and even if he had been, they were hardly going to change their plans because of a tiny thing like seasickness. He wasn't letting Alan go off on his own.

“We took you on a boat once when you were little, and it was—” Alan bit his lip. “You coughed up blood. I thought you were going to die.”

“I didn't,” Nick pointed out. “And if I was little, I imagine I've grown out of it by now.” He glanced over at Alan, whose profile was tense and unhappy. If Alan was so concerned about him, he thought, he might try telling him the truth once in a while instead of wasting time protecting him from boats.

Mae, Jamie, and Mum were silent in the backseat. After about an hour along the M3 and into the gathering night, Nick glanced in the mirror and saw Mum looking at him, her gaze steady and cold.

Alan seemed so ready to die to save her. Nick couldn't understand it, and he wasn't about to let it happen.

 

The ferry at Southampton's second terminal was a huge white and red edifice, more like a tin house floating on the water than a boat. There seemed to be a jolly cloud painted on one side, as if they were all off on a day trip to the beach.

There were very few other passengers at this time of night. They waited until everyone else was aboard; nobody was in the mood to deal with strangers, Nick least of all. He
strode onboard last, lagging behind even Alan's limping step, and walked toward the railing at the side of the ferry as the whistle blew. He lifted his face to the cold wind and hoped everyone would understand that he wanted to be left alone.

The boat lurched as it set off. Nick felt his stomach tilt with it, and a moment of dizziness passed over him, a disoriented feeling similar to that of standing up too fast and having all the blood rush to your head. He deliberately did not look at the gray expanse of water, leaning heavily against the railing and clenching his hand hard around it. He squeezed the metal so tightly his knuckles went white and his fingers ached, and he concentrated on the pain. Having a focus cleared his head.

He felt the plunge of the hull against the waves in the pit of his stomach. He tried to count the waves but they kept coming, a succession of waves battering the boat, the whole sea nothing but currents under relentless currents.

Mae left Mum's side to come and stand in front of Nick. Her face wavered in front of his eyes, bobbing as if she was underwater.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “We've only been moving for a minute and the sea's calm, but you've gone all green. Do you want to go below deck, or…maybe you'd like a basin?”

“Don't be stupid,” Nick said roughly, and tried to let go of the railing. His hands felt oddly numb, as if they did not belong to him, and then the boat creaked over another wave and he staggered, almost going down on his knees. Consciousness seemed to be sliding across the deck and away from him.

Alan turned, as if that was a cue he'd been waiting for, and moved toward Nick. The way he limped did not synchronize with the way the boat rocked, and for a moment Alan seemed like the only still point in a world full of endless sickening
motion. Nick tried to hold on. Soon Alan could get to him and tell him what was happening.

The world was moving so much it was blurring into a meaningless mess of color and sound. There was a moment of small centralized pain, someone's fingernails digging into Nick's skin, and someone's voice, high, saying: “Alan, Jamie!
Quick
—”

The world fell away as if the boat had tipped over and left them in the crashing darkness of the sea. There was nothing but darkness and confusion for a long moment, until Nick realized he was lying on the deck and retching, as if he had really been underwater and he had to cough up water to live. He did not taste water in his mouth, only the sharp bitterness of bile.

Bitterness only lasted an instant, though. Nick was used to being in complete command of his body, being strong and able to use all his strength. It was odd now, he thought in a drifting sort of way, to feel so helpless, to be so disconnected from his body. He was only sure that he had a body because of a strange pain that seemed part of the disconnection and because he was so cold.

“Nick,” said Alan's voice, compelling and comforting at once.

Slowly, through the chill, Nick felt his hand held tight in Alan's, his cheek pressed against the rough denim covering Alan's knee. He became aware of his head as his own, a distinct shape, because of his brother's hand stroking his hair.

“Nick,” Alan said again. “It's all right, Nick.”

It was all right. Nick thought about this and decided that what Alan said was true. He'd never been helpless before, not since he could remember, but now he was and everything
was all right. He didn't normally let people touch him, but he could not stop it now. He did not have to speak, he was not able to move, all he could do was lie there and have his brother hold him, hunched over and shielding him from the world. His brother's hand was light in his hair, his arm circling Nick's shoulders as well as he could, and his voice in Nick's ear was a warm soothing lifeline in the midst of the cold hissing of all the currents in the sea.

“Hold on, Nick. It's only twenty minutes until we get there. Just hold on.”

Nick tried to do what Alan wanted and hold on to his brother's hand, but he couldn't feel his fingers properly. He looked, though, and Alan was still holding Nick's hand, so perhaps that would be enough to make Alan happy. Nick vomited again, too cold and far away to care. He pressed his forehead against the inside of his brother's wrist and let the drowning darkness pull him down again.

When he was next aware of anything, it was of being in a car that was jolting to a stop. His vision was hazy and he looked around desperately, as if by jerking his head hard enough he could make himself see, but then he realized that Alan was still holding his hand.

“Alan,” he mumbled, and the orange light of a streetlamp caught Alan's glasses. The flash dimmed and Nick saw Alan's face bending over him in the flickering shadows. “Where are we?”

“We're in a taxi going from West Cowes to Carisbrooke village,” Alan answered softly, as if he was talking nonsense words to a child he was very fond of. “We're going to Merris's house. How are you feeling?”

“As if my body doesn't belong to me,” Nick said.

“I'm sorry for bringing you onto that boat.”

Nick levered himself up on one elbow. “Not your fault. You warned me, I just didn't think I was pathetic enough to collapse because of a little queasiness.”

“You're an idiot,” said Alan, relaxing enough to smile at him. “But you're not pathetic.”

There was a flicker of movement in the corner of Nick's eye. He looked around sharply, dropping Alan's hand, and saw Jamie and Mae sitting on the flip-down leather seats opposite them. He realized properly for the first time that they really were in a cab. He looked beyond the clouded glass to see the tired profile of the cab driver and the black fall of Mum's hair in the passenger seat.

“How are you feeling, Nick?” Jamie inquired, shifting uneasily on his seat. He and Mae looked rather alike just now, both staring at him with wide, frightened eyes. He recognized with a shock the fact that they both looked worried.

“Can you walk?” asked Mae, being more practical. “We're here.”

He nodded, and Mae opened the car door. Nick got out, straightened, and did not know what was keeping him up. When he looked down, it was his legs and feet as usual.

There was a high stone wall in front of them and an ornate gate. The stones in the wall glittered with mica. The iron of the gate was shaped into trees and snakes and women. The whole purpose of the walls and gate seemed to be decoration, but this was simply a distraction from the fact that the walls were very high and there were wicked-looking spikes on the gate. There was jagged glass gleaming on top of the walls, almost hidden by the leaves of trees behind them. It reminded Nick of Liannan, with her curtain of hair and sharp teeth.

He had to lean against the cab. He should not have stood up so soon; he tried to move and Alan was beside him. Nick must have been sagging, because he was eye level with the first button on Alan's shirt.

“Mae, help me,” Alan ordered, and Mae was suddenly at Nick's side.

Nick dimly approved of Alan's choice. Mae was certainly better able to bear his weight than Jamie, and as for Mum, who was taller and stronger than either of them, she would not have touched Nick no matter who asked. Then his head lolled forward, his neck feeling like a thick tube of spaghetti. He was not going to be sick again; he just wanted to lie down until he remembered how to work his own body.

“Jamie,” Alan said, his voice soothing for Nick's benefit, even though he was speaking to someone else. “Go and press the intercom button. Say ‘My name is one.'”

“One?” Jamie asked, blinking. “One what?”

“Jamie! Nick is going to fall over!”

“Right. I'm sorry,” said Jamie, shaking his head and stepping backward, almost walking into the tree and turning to scurry toward the gate. Nick heard his voice, seeming much farther away than it should have, saying that his name was one.

The gate swung open stiffly, as if it did not open often. Beyond was a garden with trees weighed down by their late-May green burdens, and crazy paving that stretched on until it was lost from view.

They went slowly down the garden path, Nick's awareness of what was going on ebbing and fading with every step. The garden was a wild tangle that had clearly been left to decay for years; briars formed nightmare patterns against Nick's eyelids as his eyes closed. Alan's voice cut across his
consciousness, saying his name, and Nick opened his eyes again with an effort.

In front of them now was a large white house, rising above them like a sheer white cliff. It was so large that it seemed to demand decoration, the decency of pillars and balconies, but here behind the gates there was no such pretense. There was only the severe white building, stretching up five floors. Above the large door were letters raised in gold.

The words swam before Nick's eyes, gleaming fish that wanted to escape and would not form a coherent pattern, and then they stilled. Nick could feel his body now and it felt heavy, so heavy that he could not hold himself up.

The gold letters stayed for a moment, pinned up against the blackness, when his eyelids dropped and he fell forward.

THE HOUSE OF MEZENTIUS,
the shining words read, and below that:
THEIR NAME IS LEGION.

 

Nick woke in darkness to the sound of screams.

The darkness he solved by reaching out and turning on the lamp on the table beside his bed, but the screams were different. He sat up, noting with relief that his muscles and sinews now remembered they were his and obeyed him. He slipped out of the tangled embrace of sheets to have a look around. The room had a high ceiling, and little scalloped bits at the corners of said ceiling. His bed was big, with a carved oak headboard.

The screams were faint. Nick judged that they were muffled by thick walls, rather than all that far away.

The heavy door, also polished oak, slid open. Nick reached for a sword that was not there and was glad to see Alan. He was also glad to see that Alan had his sword.

Alan smiled, laugh lines leaping out from the corners of his eyes. “I see you're feeling better.” He threw Nick a little heap of fabric, which Nick unfolded and saw was a shirt, the crisp buttoned kind you should wear with a suit. He was about to refuse it when he glanced down at his T-shirt and saw that it was stained with vomit and blood. He didn't want to know if he'd hacked up blood. He just changed shirts.

Once he had done so, he gestured around at the room. “All this is very posh.”

“It's Merris Cromwell's house.”

Nick supposed that made sense. Everybody knew Merris had money, even though he hadn't known she had this much.

“Where are the others?”

Alan looked pleased that he'd asked. “Nearby. Mum's asleep, Merris gave her something to calm her down, but the others are wondering how you are. We've all been put in the north wing, so we're pretty close together. Do you want to go see them?”

Nick shrugged, and Alan led the way. The north wing seemed to be mostly corridors so wide they almost qualified as rooms, the walls sleek and white and the wooden floors all dark from years and polish. They found Mae and Jamie in a room reminiscent of Nick's, with the same solemn-looking bed and crenulated ceiling. Jamie was sitting cross-legged on the bed, and Mae was pacing across a fluffy white rug that looked like a decapitated polar bear.