Wild Boy and the Black Terror (9 page)

He looked up, but Wild Boy was gone.

8

W
ild Boy’s coat snapped behind him as he set off on Lucien’s trail. He knew he had to be careful; despite his assignment from the Queen, he wasn’t allowed to wander the palace alone. Whenever a Gentleman passed, he ducked into hiding – first sliding beneath a chaise longue, then behind a dusty Ming vase that he nearly knocked over in his rush to remain unseen.

Steadying the vase on its stand, he continued his hunt, seeking out the fresh drops of black wax from among others glistening on the floorboards. He plucked a candle from a mantelpiece as the trail led him through a drawing room with pikes and spears arranged in patterns on the walls, then out to an arched cloister that framed the palace’s smallest courtyard. He’d never been here before. Judging from the waist-high brambles that filled the courtyard’s small central garden, nor had many others.

He crept around the cloister, through stripes of moonlight and shadow. It wasn’t hard to follow Lucien’s path anymore, a lonely trail of wax drops that led to an arched door in the corner of the courtyard. Wild Boy’s heart thumped from the thrill of the chase, but he wished Clarissa was there. Sneaking about wasn’t as much fun without her.

The door opened with a creak that echoed around the darkness beyond. Wild Boy stepped through it, eyes scanning for danger. Shelves rose on every wall, each crammed with leather-bound books and ancient-looking scrolls. Sheets of cobwebs hung like net curtains across the stacks. Cockroaches scurried across spines.

“A library,” he whispered.

From the reek of stale breath that lingered in the air, it was obvious that Lucien had just been here. Wild Boy followed another drop of wax, and then another. His frosted breaths hung in the air like ghosts, and his trembling hand caused the candlelight to skitter across the stone-flagged floor. He heard footsteps and stepped back against one of the bookcases.

The steps grew louder, echoing around the cold stone gloom.

And then –
thud
. The library door slammed shut.

Wild Boy released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Lucien was gone, but why had he come here in such a hurry? Lowering his candle, he followed the trail to the rear of the library, where multicoloured moonlight streamed through stained glass.

Four wax drops dotted on the floor, marking the spot where Lucien had stopped. It wasn’t hard to see which book had interested him: the only one with its dust unsettled. It was halfway up the shelf and bound in pigskin.

Wild Boy moved closer, reading the title on its spine.

He drew a sharp breath.

“Demons?” he breathed.

He pulled the book down, setting his candle into its space on the shelf. Slowly, he turned the pages. What he saw made his fingers tighten. The book was full of monsters. Strange, unearthly names flicked past –
Abbadon, Behemoth, Gamigin, Leviathan
– with descriptions and drawings of grotesque creatures. Parts of different animals melted into each other, faces twisted with pain. There were lions with serpent’s tails, goats with wings, misshapen toads with claws as long as kitchen knives. Each drawing was surrounded by magical symbols, pentagrams and ancient scripts.

Wild Boy felt sicker and sicker with each page.

He stopped at one that was stained with Lucien’s wax. Here was the most terrifying drawing yet: part crow, part man. The beast had ragged black wings, curling talons and eyes that beamed black light in every direction. Its lips were peeled back, revealing vicious barbed-wire teeth. The creature was screaming.

No, Wild Boy realized with a shudder: it was laughing.

Its name was printed in thick black type.

He comes sometimes as a crow, sometimes as a man, and sometimes in both forms at once. Destroyer of cities. Bringer of plagues. He makes his enemies witness the blackest memories of all things past
.

Wild Boy read the entry again, his fingers growing so tight around the page that they crinkled the parchment. He didn’t believe in demons or anything like that. He’d seen enough horrors in real life. But he remembered Prendergast’s face. The terror in his eyes, the invisible horrors that tormented him in those moments before he died…

“No,” he said, firmly. “I don’t believe in demons.”

He tore the page from the book and stuffed it in his pocket. He reached to take the candle from the shelf, but stopped. His detective instincts took over, and he saw something he wasn’t looking for. Spiders had spun homes in the space behind the book, but the cobwebs were broken. It didn’t make sense; why would Lucien have reached that far back on the shelf?

Rising to tiptoes, Wild Boy slid his arm deeper into the space. A spider scuttled across his hand, tickling his hairs. He felt the back of the shelf, prodded the wood, tapping, testing…

The wooden panel flipped open. There was something hidden behind it.

“Ha,” he said, and then bit his lip, fearing he might be heard.

Every hair on Wild Boy’s body tingled. He couldn’t wait to tell Clarissa he’d found a clue without her. She’d be
furious
.

Eagerly, he slid the item from the secret compartment. It was a small ebony box, similar to the one the killer had sent to the Queen. He plucked off the lid and groaned. Whatever had been in there was gone. All that remained was an outline in dust, about the size of a plum, where an object had sat.

But it was still a clue. Whatever had been in the box, Wild Boy was certain it was important to the case. He and Clarissa would find a way to get it after she got back from Lady Bentick’s dinner.

Already grinning at the prospect, Wild Boy slid the box back. He pushed the hatch shut. It closed with a hollow
thud
.

Wild Boy turned to leave, but stopped.

That
thud
.

He had heard it before.

It was the sound he’d thought was the library door closing, the
thud
he thought was Lucien leaving.

A grey hand grabbed his arm. It threw Wild Boy so hard against the shelf that books crashed down on his head.

Lucien glared at him. His arms trembled and his voice boomed like musket fire. “What are you doing here, boy? What did you see?” He leaned closer, blasting Wild Boy with stale breath. “This isn’t one of your detective games! This is beyond anything you can possibly comprehend.”

He pushed Wild Boy harder, causing more books to fall. Wild Boy didn’t fight. He wasn’t bothered about the beating; he’d taken worse, and from nastier people. What worried him then – what scared him to his bones – was the look in Lucien’s eyes.

This man had led armies into battle. And yet something about this case terrified Lucien Grant. And that terrified Wild Boy too. He wanted to get away from him. Far away.

Just as Lucien opened his mouth to shout, Wild Boy hocked up a ball of spit and fired it between the Gentleman’s lips. Shock caused Lucien to relax his grip, freeing vital inches for Wild Boy to swing a knee at his groin.

Lucien’s eyes widened and he made a sound like a bagpipe.

Twisting free, Wild Boy kicked him again between the legs, and then again, harder. He turned and pelted between stacks of shelves.

Every instinct urged him to keep running, but he forced himself to stop in the library doorway. Whatever Lucien took from that box could be his biggest clue yet. He had to find out what it was, but he could think of only one way. One very painful way.

Lucien stumbled closer, red-eyed and roaring. “Bloody boy!”

Wild Boy clenched his fists, ready for the impact. “Come on, old man!” he yelled. “Hit me as hard as you can.”

The Gentleman slammed into him like a locomotive, and they tumbled together back into the cloister. The blow knocked the breath from Wild Boy’s body, but he managed to turn as he fell, so that Lucien’s head cracked against the stone ground.

Blood seeped from a cut on Lucien’s forehead, forming crimson crystals in the snow. His eyes rolled as he struggled to stay concious.

Retching for breath, Wild Boy crawled closer. He rummaged through Lucien’s coat, searching for the object from the box. All he found was Lucien’s snuff tin. He dropped it and was about to search again, when Lucien’s hand shot up and grabbed his arm.

Wild Boy tried to pull away, but the grip on his wrist was like a vice. When Lucien spoke again he didn’t sound angry. His voice was urgent, imploring – desperate, even.