Original art by Rob Pegler.
Chapter 1
Afterward, she could never remember what it was that woke her up.
Her mother at the bedroom door, black hair tangled across her face, her best green t-shirt speckled with blood . . . that was the first thing she clearly remembered. But perhaps it was the noises that had roused her—the splintering of wood, the sound of gunshots, the twisted inhuman wail that seemed to come from everywhere. Had she heard her father screaming? She couldn't remember.
Her mother hadn't spoken at first. She'd slammed the bedroom door as she came through, throwing her shoulder against it. For a second she leaned there, head resting against the wood, as if getting her bearings. Then she moved again, crossing to the bed, already reaching for the small girl sitting up under the covers. She had a weapon in her hand, one of the Viking throwing axes from the collection in the basement. With her other arm she caught the girl around the torso and dragged her from the mattress, pulling her to the floor on the other side of the bed.
She spoke as quickly and clearly as she could, holding the girl by the cheek to keep her focused, but the crashing outside was louder now, and that awful wailing had risen to an ear-splitting shriek, rage and pain twisted together like a barbwire knot. The girl's eyes moved from her mother's mouth, drifting down to the blood—whose blood?—on her green shirt, little droplets of brown, like dead flowers. And then the hand dropped to her shoulder and her mother was pushing her to the floor, guiding her under the bed, with the toys she'd hidden so she didn't have to tidy them up, and the little piles of dust. The last she saw of her mother was her hand snatching up the axe from the floor, and her feet sprinting back to the door. She was wearing her red ankle socks, the ones she'd bought at the supermarket around the corner. The soles were dark with blood.
It was quiet for a moment after the door closed. The girl lay there on her stomach, dust tickling her nose, and wondered if it was over. But then there was another crash, the front door to the little flat giving way as something forced its way through from the shop out front. The shrieking began again, louder this time, and her mother's voice rose against it, screaming back in a language the girl didn't know. Something shattered, she heard her mother cry out, and the sound of the kitchen table overturning.
Something hit the bedroom door, hard enough to shift it on it hinges. A crack appeared in the wood, diagonal and jagged, chipping the blue paint. It struck again, a lighter blow this time, and a rattling hiss filled the air, like a sick old man trying to breathe.
The girl began to move before she knew where she was going, pushing aside an old stuffed bear to crawl out from under the bed. She didn't know which way to run—to escape, to help her mother, to find her father—but she was alone and frightened and she had to move. For a moment she stared at the blue door, almost mesmerized, as something pushed against it from the other side, slowly forcing the crack open like an eggshell. Something was seeping through the crack, something dark and wet, trickling down the woodwork in thin jagged streams.
And then there was the blinding white light in her eyes, and that awful hissing in her head, and she heard shattering glass and someone calling her name . . .
"Helena?"
"Yep."
"Helena Downwright?"
"That's her."
Will Grey rolled the name around in his head. He was a little confused.
It was barely eight-thirty on a Thursday morning, and Will and Meliad were on their way to the movies. Will didn't know what film they were going to see, assuming they could find one at this time of the morning, or even why this sudden urge to take in a film had come about. All he knew was that earlier that morning, a girl named Helena had unexpectedly arrived at the office of Downwright and Pope. After an awkward greeting and some initial fumbling about, she and Gabriel Pope had gone upstairs to Gabe's apartment to talk. Shortly thereafter Meliad had bustled Will out the door and announced, "Come on, we're going to a movie."
Now he was perched on the back of Mel's moped, trying to keep her billowing moss-green hair out of his face, while they rode around looking for a cinema.
Leaning his head to one side, Will leaned over Mel's shoulder and raised his voice over the whine of the engine. "But who is she?"
"What?" Mel called back.
"Helena. Who is she?"
Mel shrugged, turning right on her way to the Basilica theatre. "She's an old friend of Gabe's."
"Yeah, I got that. But she's related to Moses, right?"
"Yep. Great-granddaughter."
Will nodded. That made sense. Downwright & Pope had been founded in the early 1920's by Malachi Pope, Gabe's great-grandfather, and his old adventuring buddy Moses Downwright. Some time later, after Malachi had met a typically violent end, Moses had left town and gone on to raise a family down in Sundry City. That much he'd gleaned from the Pope Family Journal, which he'd read extensively over the past few days. But the Journal was mainly concerned with the Popes and their battles with the undead and demonic, and didn't record much at all about Moses' offspring.
"So," he hazarded, "she owns half the business?"
Mel snorted. "No. We keep the Downwright name on the door for tradition's sake, but they haven't had a stake in the business since Moses died. Helena's parents ran a shop in Sundry City. I only met them a couple of times, but they were good people."
"Were?"
"Yes. They're dead."
"Really? How?"
Mel sighed into the rushing wind. "You're not going to drop it until I tell you the whole thing, are you?"
"Probably not," Will conceded.
"Fair enough." Coming to an intersection, Mel turned left away from the theatre. "Forget the movies. Let's get coffee."
Helena already had coffee, but hadn't touched it yet. It was rapidly cooling on the low table in front of Gabe's lumpy old sofa, on which she was awkwardly perched with her knees together and her hands folded demurely in her lap. Her eyes were fixed on the far wall, which was covered with newspaper clippings, photographs, sketches and notes detailing the paranormal comings and goings of the Roseburg underworld. Helena's mind was on other things.
She looked to her left as the bathroom door opened and Gabe emerged, hair still damp, pulling on a t-shirt over a relatively clean pair of jeans. He'd spent part of the previous evening wading through a sewer to escape a vampire lair, and had felt it best to take a quick shower and change clothes before receiving his guest. Crossing to the armchair opposite the sofa, he quietly sat down. His gaze rested on the lukewarm coffee cup for a full fifteen seconds before looking up at Helena. She gave him a half-hearted smile.
"So," she said. "Here we are."
Gabe nodded. "Yeah."
Ten seconds later, Helena picked up the coffee and took a sip.
"So, she's like an old girlfriend or something?"
Mel leaned over to collect two cups from the counter, handing one to Will. "Not exactly," she replied, as they made their way to an empty table. There weren't many to choose from, but then there weren't many customers either. Mel had discovered this particular cafe two weeks ago and had been making the most of it while she could. It was small and out of the way and not too trendy, and given Roseburg's history of small business ventures it would almost certainly be closed within three months.
"How is she 'not exactly' his girlfriend?" Will asked, sitting down.
"She wasn't his girlfriend at all," Mel explained. "They just go back a long way. I mean, he was there when she was born. They grew up together, for a while at least."
"So it's like a brother and sister thing?"
Mel pondered this. "No. That's not it either."
Will scowled at her.
"It's hard to explain," Mel admitted, picking up her coffee. "Not even sure where to start."
"The beginning might work," Will suggested.
"Alright," Mel smiled. "Are you sitting comfortably?"
Will smiled back. "Yes I am."
"Okay. This all goes back to when Hazel left town. She and Gabe—"
"Who's Hazel?" Will cut in.
"Hazel Pope. Gabe's mother."
"Oh. Is she dead too?"
"Not that I know of. Stop interrupting."
"Sorry."
"Gabe was their only child," Mel went on. "Lazarus had a couple of kids from an earlier marriage, not that he'd seen them for years. Hazel was his third wife. I could tell from the start it wasn't going to last, but who am I?" She took a reflective sip from her cup. "Anyway, Gabe would have been three at the time, so this was about nineteen years ago . . ."
About nineteen years ago
Hazel's suitcase was too big for the stairwell, but the elevator was a deathtrap. It was too heavy for her to lift on her own, but she wasn't asking Lazarus for help. He was skulking in the office upstairs, and she couldn't ask him the time of day without an argument starting. So she struggled and staggered and bumped down the narrow flights of stairs, the big suitcase swinging against her leg, making her awkward way down to the ground floor. She wouldn't be coming back up.
Two floors down, in the alley behind the Fisher Building, Mel was minding the kid.
The kid was big for his age but, given that his current age was three years and four months, that still wasn't very big. He was on the other side of the alley, kicking at the concrete base that surrounded the bottom of the drainpipe on the wall. His shoes were new, but his jeans were grubby and worn around the ankles, and he was already outgrowing his jacket.
Mel leaned against the side of Hazel's white hatchback, the back seat already piled with boxes and cases, and watched the boy play. Not for the first time, she considered that he didn't look much like his father. He didn't resemble his mother either, with her big eyes and wispy red hair. He was definitely a Pope, though. Probably more Pope than Lazarus was, which may have been the reason.
Somewhere above their heads, a muffled banging and grinding sound came from behind the concrete wall. It sounded like a suitcase being dropped down a flight of steps. Mel waited until she heard a faint curse, and nodded.
"Hey," she said, and the boy looked around. Waving him over, she slipped her arm around the kid's shoulders as he snuggled into her hip. "Your mum wants looking after," she told him.
"Yeah."
"You look after her and she'll look after you."
"Okay."
"Good man." Thinking for a moment, Mel reached to the necklace at her throat and carefully slipped the chain over her head. The boy looked up as she held the necklace in front of his face. It was a celtic cross, an engraved ring surrounding the arms, hand-carved from solid silver. "Your grandfather gave me this," Mel told him.
"So?"
Mel snorted. "Keep it somewhere until you're big enough to wear it." She glanced towards the door. "Your mum probably won't like it."
The boy reached out and took hold of the cross, stuffing it into the pocket of his grubby jeans. "Oh well."
Mel smirked. "Oh well."
The door down the alley opened, and a battered suitcase emerged. It was followed a moment later by a frazzled mop of red hair with a woman underneath it. Mel looked up with a grim smile as the suitcase was dragged along the rough cement towards the car. "Need a hand with that?"
"No." Hazel reached for the door handle, her fingers slipping off it, and finally managed to get the back door open. Mel watched impassively as she heaved, grunted and shoved the case into the back seat, finally swinging the door shut behind it.
"Got everything?" Mel asked.
"Everything I want." Taking the boy by the hand, Hazel led him firmly around to the passenger door and buckled him into the seat.
"So where are you going?"
Hazel walked around to the driver's door, rummaging in her bag for the car keys. "Sundry City," she said, climbing into the car.
Mel nodded. "Sundry's nice."
"How would you know?" said Hazel, and slammed the door.
"Hazel sounds awesome," Will commented.
"Yeah, well." Mel shrugged. "She wasn't really cut out for the Pope family. Most people aren't."
"So where is she now?"
"Not sure. I heard something about Belgium."
"Belgium?"
"Yep."
"Why is she in Belgium?"
"We'll get to that. More coffee?"
Gabe set another cup of coffee in front of Helena. "So how's your grandmother?"
Helena looked up, wearing an awkward smile. "Died three years back."
"Oh." Gabe sank back into the armchair. "Sorry."
Helena shrugged. "She was ninety-nine."
Gabe nodded, drumming his fingers on the armrest of the chair. "Actually," he added, leaning slightly forward in a conspiritorial way, "I always got the feeling she didn't like me very much."
"She didn't," Helena replied, picking up the cup.
"Ah."
"Oh, it was nothing personal," Helena assured him. "She didn't like any of the Popes."
"Right."
Helena sipped her coffee. "Didn't think much of the Downwrights either, come to that. But what are you gonna do? Anyway, Auntie Rose and me have been getting along fine. She always liked you."
"Rose likes everybody."
"Yeah. It's weird. Anyway, she sends her love. Or she would. If she knew I was here."
Gabe saw the opening. "Why are you here?"
Helena sighed, and put the cup down. Reaching for the jacket folded beside her, she rummaged in a pocket and produced a rumpled envelope. "Letter from Mr Jarndyce. My parent's lawyer? I turned eighteen a couple of weeks ago."
"I know."
"So it's official. The shop's mine." She dropped the envelope onto the table. "I'm driving down to Sundry City to sign the papers."
Gabe nodded. "Right. The shop."
"Downwright's Opportunity Shoppe," said Hazel, reading the lettering on the door. "This is it."
Beside her, the boy looked up at the gloomy doorway. It was made from old wood, with a clouded glass panel set into it, and set at the back of a deep doorway between two other businesses. Someone had hung a potted plant with little yellow flowers from the top of the doorway.
"What's in there?" he asked his mother.
Hazel didn't answer at first. She was studying the lettering under the shop's name, which read Purveyors of Esoteric Goods from Across the Globe. The words est. 1946 were painted in smaller lettering underneath.
"What's in there, mum?"
Hazel sighed and sank into a crouch, wrapping an arm around the boy's shoulders. "Mummy has to go to work, hon. Some friends of . . . your dad own this shop. They're going to watch you until I get back. Okay?"
"Okay." He sounded uncertain.
Hazel smiled and squeezed his shoulder. "Don't worry. They're nice."
She rose to her feet as the shop door opened, and a woman emerged. She was in her late twenties, quite small, with long black hair in a ponytail and sparkling green eyes. She was wearing loose jeans and a maternity blouse over her protruding belly, on which her right hand was resting. She was already smiling. "Hi. Sorry, I didn't know you were already here."
"No problem," Hazel replied. "Um . . . Gabe. This is Mrs Downwright. She's going to look after you. Today."
The woman crouched as far as her belly would allow. "Hi, Gabriel. I'm Alice."
"Hi."
"Want to help me in the shop today? We've got all kinds of weird junk down there. It's pretty cool." She extended a hand.
After a moment, Gabe smiled and took hold of it. Straightening up, Alice Downwright smiled at Hazel. "He'll be fine. See you at six?"
As they made their way back to the door, Gabe looked up at Alice's stomach. "Are you going to have a baby?"
"Sure am."
"Is it going to be a boy?"
"You know," Alice replied, holding the door for him, "I kinda hope not."
Chapter 2
Downwright’s Opportunity Shoppe wasn’t a large establishment, but it was still possible to get lost. Occupying a basement area below street level, accessible by a narrow flight of stairs, it was comprised of one central space and two smaller side rooms accessible through tiled archways, all of them divided up by rows of looming wooden shelves. The shelves went from floor to ceiling, and the aisles were laid out in an irregular twisting arrangement, giving the place a labyrinthine quality. No-one was quite sure exactly how much floorspace the shop had—it didn’t appear on the original plans for the building—and the last three generations of owners had always been too busy to get out the tape measure and do the math. The middle of the main room was like a broad avenue running front to back, with low display cases set at irregular intervals, allowing one to walk from the door to the counter at the far end with only a couple of turns.
Moses Downwright had opened the shop in 1946, shortly after arriving in town. He was already an old man then, having travelled the darker corners of Europe, Africa and the Middle East in the company of Malachi Pope, and the shop had become a repository for some of the strange and mystical artifacts the pair had picked up on their travels. Originally called Downwright’s Emporium of the Arcane, after Moses' death in the early Sixties it was taken over by his wife and two daughters who had agreed that the place needed a friendlier title to pull in the punters. Thirty years later the shop had been passed on in turn to Jack Downwright—youngest son of the eldest daughter, and something of an adventurer himself—and his bride Alice Flynn. They'd inherited not only a business but also a home, since the shop came with a small two-bedroom flat out back. This worked out nicely, since Alice had discovered she was expecting a few months after moving into the shop.
Nine months later, the couple were still sorting things out. The inventory of Downwright's was comprised of many unusual items, some of them extremely valuable, several quite dangerous. They stocked everything from books on the occult, to amulets, to idols, to dried potions, to actual weapons. Most of it was stored in the shop itself, but there was a second basement one level down where—in accordance with Moses' instructions—those items of a more treacherous nature were kept. Both the Downwrights and the Flynns knew all too well how seriously one should take such things, and Jack and Alice had seen enough on their own travels to tread lightly around some of the items in the storeroom.
Hazel Pope knew it too, to a lesser degree, and as such was never entirely happy with letting her four-year-old son spend time in the shop. But the Downwrights were the only friends she had in Sundry City, and—despite the fact that she'd met them through her estranged husband—the only people she trusted enough. Both Jack and Alice had sworn to watch the boy like hawks, and keep him busy while she was at work.
On this particular afternoon, three months after his first visit, he was helping Alice pick a new colour for the bathroom.
The bathroom wasn't very big, even as bathrooms went. It was tucked away in one corner of the flat, in the space left over by the second bedroom. With the toilet and the bath and the cabinet, there was just enough room for three relatively thin people to stand up in it. It had no windows, and was lit only by a hanging light fixture. It was old and dusty and a nasty shade of ochre, and Alice wanted to brighten it up. Gabriel, sitting on top of the toilet lid with a colour chart in his tiny hand, had already declared a preference for red or yellow. Alice had smiled encouragingly and thanked him for his input.
"What about aquamarine?" she suggested, picking a cobweb from behind the bath.
Gabe stared blankly at her. She smiled and pointed to the colour chart. Gabe studied it for a moment and replied, "I think it looks sad." Looking up, he pointed at Alice's lime-green shirt. "I like that colour."
Alice looked down at the shirt, stretched over her belly that peeked out under the hem. "You think the baby will—?"
Gabe looked up at her. "What's wrong?"
Alice had gone pale. Leaning forward, she steadied herself on the edge of the bath. "Oooooohhh-kay then . . ."
Gabe hopped down off the toilet lid. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Alice smiled painfully, sinking to a crouch. Looking down, Gabe saw a dark patch spreading across her jeans. "Um, could you—" Alice paused, screwing up her face, and let out a low groan. "C-could you go and . . . get Jack . . .?"
Helena Ailis Downwright was born just before nightfall, on the floor of her parent's bathroom. Unable to get her mother to the car, and with the midwife still on the way, her father had been forced to deliver her himself. It was the first time he'd brought a baby into the world, although he'd seen it done in more primitive surroundings. The labour had only lasted thirty-three minutes, though apparently still a couple of minutes shy of the record. In any case, Jack had had moral support from the small boy standing just outside the bathroom door.
When Hazel Pope arrived at the hospital later than evening, she berated Jack for letting the boy see the baby being born. Jack apologized, but assured her there hadn't been much choice. Gabe, sitting in Alice's room watching the baby sleep, had little to say on the matter.
"So that was it," Mel shrugged, finishing off her second latte. "Gabe always had this protective thing for Helena, ever since she was born. It probably was just a 'big brother' thing at first, but, well . . . six years later. That was when it happened."
Will nodded. "You mean, when her parents died."
"No," said Mel. "I mean when they were killed."
Will's eyebrows lifted. "Really? Who killed them?"
"A better question would be what killed them," Mel explained. "Cops said it was a robbery gone bad, or a home invasion, or something. But it wasn't. I saw the photos. The most screwed-up nutcase who ever lived couldn't—" She shook her head. "No, they ran into something bad. I guess it wasn't any big surprise, in a place like that. Some of the stuff they had locked away . . ."
"This happened at the shop?"
"Yeah."
Will, though he didn't realise it, was leaning forward in his chair. "So what about Helena? Was she there?"
"Oh, she was there."
"So how did she get away?"
"That's what I'm getting at," Mel explained, with a sigh. "That's the big thing between her and Gabe."
Will frowned. "What?"
"He was there too," said Mel. "He saved her."
"Have you been to India?"
Jack Downwright paused in his work. "What?"
"Have you been to India?"
"Yeah." Jack turned back to his scrubbing. "I've been there."
"Was it nice?"
"Bits of it."
"Oh." Helena looked down at the globe in her lap. It was full-sized, removed from its stand, and had a coffee stain covering much of West Africa. Turning it slightly to the left, the girl squinted at the surface. "What about . . . They-land?"
"Thailand."
"Yeah. Have you been to Tie-land?"
"I've been everywhere, man." Jack chuckled to himself, not that Helena could understand why.
Helena sat back on her hands, looking up at the sky. The back door of their little basement flat led up a flight of concrete steps to an empty yard outside, surrounded by the backs of several buildings. It was connected to the street on the other side by a long alleyway with two turns. Since no one else appeared to be using the yard, and since at least three quarters of the area was covered by grass, the Downwrights had claimed it as their back yard until someone told them otherwise. Alice had put out patio furniture and was determined, some day, to dig up a section of the yard and get a garden going. Jack had told her she'd have to work like a dog to get anything to grow, but the dream stayed alive.
Helena was sitting on a blanket near the middle of the yard with three books and a couple of scattered toys—including the Barbie doll with the melted head—but it was the globe that currently interested her. Her father was nearby, sitting awkwardly by the steps, cleaning the little slit windows that provided their subterranean home with its only natural light. They were about a foot high, set at ground level from outside, and seemed to attract every type of filth known to man.
Helena turned her attention back to the globe, turning it around until her tiny finger found the little red dot that marked Sundry City. "Dad?"
"Hmmm?"
"Do you like it here?"
"In the yard?"
"No. In Sundry City."
Jack paused, wiping his brow, and attacked the window again. "What . . . living here?"
"Yeah."
He shrugged. "I guess I like it. I was born here."
Helena looked up, batting her dark hair out of her eyes. "I was born here."
"Yeah," Jack smirked. "I remember."
"Yeah, but . . . I want to live in India."
"Really?"
"Yup."
Jack turned to look at her. He was forty-two years old and beginning to look it, but still had the boyish good looks and rascally grin that had convinced young Alice Flynn to run off to the far ends of the earth with him, earning the enmity of her mother in the process. "Gravity always wins, kid."
Helena blinked. "What?"
"Never mind. Gabe's here."
Helena looked around to see a familiar figure emerge from the alleyway on the far side of the yard. Recently turned ten, he was already a tall and solidly-built boy, with messy brown hair and a serious expression. He strolled across the yard with one hand stuffed into a pocket, a threadbare backpack slung over his shoulder. As he approached, Helena rolled the globe aside and jumped to her feet. "I'm going to live in India," she announced.
Gabe grinned. "Off you go, then," he replied, and gave her a one-armed hug.
"Hey, boy." Jack rose to his feet, massaging the ache in his scrubbing arm. "How's your mum?"
"Tell you when I see her," Gabe replied, rummaging in his bag. He finally produced a slightly-squashed meusli bar, which he handed to Helena.
Jack sighed. "Hungry?"
"I 'spose."
"Ever had fajitas?"
"Don't even know what they are."
"Guess you're gonna find out, then," Jack concluded, nodding towards the back door. "Go tell Alice you're here for dinner."
Gabe smiled, hoisted a shrieking Helena under one arm like a sack, and made his way down the steps.
Gabe wasn't a big fan of fajitas, as it turned out. But he didn't let on, especially since Helena loved them. They talked while they ate—Jack about the shop, Alice about her plans for the yard, Gabe about school, Helena about her plans to move to the Indian subcontinent and own a tiger. Presently Alice asked, "So how's things with your mum, Gabe? We don't talk much these days."
"The usual," Gabe shrugged, pushing bits of chicken around his plate. "She goes to work, and then goes out with the people from work, and then she comes home. And sleeps."
Jack and Alice exchanged glances.
"Oh," Gabe added, remembering something. "And she wants to go to France."
Jack frowned. "France?"
"Yeah. She's been talking about it for ages. How she always meant to go to France, but she married my dad instead, but she still wants to go."
Alice was staring firmly at the salsa on the table. "I see."
"Hab you errer been do Fwance, dad?" Helena asked, through a mouthful of tortilla.
Jack sighed and picked up his fajita. "Yeah. I've been to France."
After dinner they played a board game at the table and then watched TV, Gabe and Helena sprawled side-by-side on the floor while Alice reclined on the sofa, feet resting in her husband's lap. He kept tickling her through her red ankle socks, causing her to squirm and kick him.
It was just after seven-thirty when a torch beam flashed across the little windows above the television. A moment later there was a harsh curse, and the sound of boot heels stumbling on the steps. Gabe sighed and sat up. "I think my ride's here."
A moment later, there was a knock at the door. Alice got up to answer it while Gabe retrieved his backpack.
"You want to see about putting up a light in that alley," Hazel complained as the door was opened. "I need to carry a bloody flashlight just to find my way in here."
"Hi, Hazel," Alice smiled. She saw the woman was stooped over, rubbing at her ankle. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah," Hazel sighed. "Someone left a globe sitting on the ground up there. Nearly tripped me down the stairs."
Gabe hugged Helena and endured a kiss on the head from Alice on his way out. "Thanks for dinner," he called, as Alice closed the door.
The white hatchback was halfway to Hazel's apartment before she spoke, and when she did Gabe knew he wasn't going to like it. "Look, hon, I've been thinking . . ."
Gabe looked sideways. "About what?"
"About my situation."
Gabe noted her use of the word my, but kept listening.
"You like the Downwrights, don't you? Jack and Alice are nice? I know you love their little girl."
"Yeah."
"'Cos I was thinking . . . maybe it'd be better, you know. If you . . . um . . ."
"Right."
"I mean, I haven't talked to them about it yet. And I'd be paying for—"
"Sure."
"And then you'd be, er, happier, right? And I could—"
"Go to France."
Hazel stopped the car a few metres short of an orange light. "That's not what I meant, Gabriel. I'm not ditching you."
"Never said you were."
"I do my best, you know. I'm at work all day, I'm not at the fucking mall."
"You work at the mall."
"You know what I mean!"
Gabe finally looked her in the eye. "You want me to go and live with Jack and Alice."
"I didn't say I wanted—"
"Fine." Unclipping his seatbelt, Gabe pulled the glovebox open and grabbed Hazel's flashlight. Before she could react, he'd popped open the passenger door and was out of the car.
He heard her shout his name, but kept running.
"And that," Jack concluded, "was the last we ever saw of Mister John."
Helena, sitting up in bed with her knees drawn up to her chin, gave her father a dubious look. "It ate him?"
Jack mulled this over. "Well, I didn't see it eat him. I don't think it had a mouth. But it definitely squished him."
Helena pulled a face. "Is that a real story?"
"Course it's real."
"I like mum's stories better."
"Really."
"They've got horses."
"Do they."
"You should ask her to tell you them."
Jack smiled. "You should shut your little cake-hole and go to sleep."
Five minutes later, with the girl tucked in, Jack returned to the central area which served as the living room, dining room and kitchen. Alice was on the sofa, feet up, sipping a glass of wine. Her eyes moved towards the stack of dishes by the sink. "Yours."
"How so?"
"I cooked."
"Yes, but I cleaned the windows."
"Still yours."
"Fine," Jack conceded. "But I need to cash up first."
"You didn't cash up?"
"I was cleaning windows."
"I can cash up," Alice suggested, starting to get up. "You're crap at it anyway."
"No, no," Jack was already on his way to the front door of the flat, which led out into the shop. "You just sit there and finish your wine. I'll expect you to be all tipsy and uninhibited when I come back."
"Still won't get you out of the dishes."
Unlocking the door, Jack walked out into the shop and approached the till. Some awkward punching of buttons eventually opened the drawer, and he lifted the cash tray out onto the counter, looking around for a pen.
Back in the flat, Alice finished off her wine, left the glass by the sink with the other dishes, and headed through to the bedroom.
Jack finished adding up, checked his figures a second time, and crouched to retrieve the cash bag from the safe under the counter. As he straightened up again, he saw the figure standing by the stairs.
Helena turned over in her sleep.
Jack stood still, eyes locked on the intruder. The figure took a step forward, turning left and right, as if it hadn't noticed him yet.
"Help you?" Jack called. The door upstairs was locked, he knew it was locked . . .
The figure slowly turned to look at him, though he couldn't see its face. Edging to his right, he glanced down at the open door to the safe. The handle of his old .45 was just visible in the shadows, on the lower shelf. "We're closed," he said.
The figure moved forward, walking into the light, and Jack went for the gun.
Alice had just kicked her jeans off when she heard the first shot. She froze for a second, green t-shirt halfway over her head. Then the noise started—a high, ear-splitting wail, like a cat, but no cat she'd ever heard, and then more gunshots, and the sound of splintering wood, and Jack crying out . . .
Pulling her shirt down, she ripped the bedroom door open and dashed out, still in her underwear and red socks, running for the front door.
Gabe had almost gotten lost on the way back to the shop. He walked here every day after school, but he was coming from the other direction, and had taken a different route so his mother wouldn't catch up in the car. Besides, everything looked different at night. Finally finding himself on Scarlet Avenue, he got his bearings and made his way towards the alleyway that led to the Downwright's yard. He didn't know how he was going to explain things, but he had no doubt they'd take him in. He only hoped he wouldn't be waking them up this late.
He was at the first turn in the alley, flashlight in hand, when he heard the gunshots.
Alice picked up the axe and ran.
Helena was under the bed behind her. Stupid place to hide her, but what else was there? She could hardly think, not with Jack's blood on her shirt, soaking through the soles of her socks and between her toes, and that thing out there clawing at the door, and Jack sprawled over the counter with his face . . .
The blue bedroom door slammed behind her, a flimsy piece of wood, and a lone woman in her undies with an old axe. Stupid.
The door to the shop gave way, bits of wood splintering and tumbling through the room, and it came through like black smoke and shrieking madness, and she lifted the axe and spat out the first ward that came to mind, the one the old woman in Bacau had taught her, while Jack helped her son fix the car. The axe caught it across the place where its face should have been and it lurched backwards, darting away from her into the center of the room. Alice kept coming, lunging with the axe, screaming the incantation down its throat, but the thing twisted like water and swung around her, one misshapen black limb lashing out to strike her in the side. The blow shuddered through her chest as her feet left the floor, the axe spinning out of her grip. She came down hard against the kitchen counter, scattering the unwashed dishes, plates and glasses shattering across the floor.
She got up without thinking, dragging her feet under her. She didn't have time to think. Blood was streaming down her right leg, jagged red trails from a cut on her thigh, but she hardly noticed. She caught up the nearest chair and threw it at the swirling black shape before her, but the thing brushed it aside and kept on coming, a snaking appendage whipping out to take her feet out from under her. She cried out as the room lurched sideways, pain erupting through her arm as she hit the floor. Before she could scream she was swept up again and thrown, tumbling over the table as it overturned.
Her head was swimming as she dragged herself up again, the room around her running into a watercolour blur. Her left arm was dangling, dead weight on her shoulder, but she pushed up with the right until she found her feet again. The thing swept back into focus, towering over her, filling the room with misery and shadow. A rattling hiss filled the air, cutting into her ears like broken glass.
No.
Alice took two stumbling steps back, reaching back with her right hand, until her fingertips found the blue door behind her.
Not this door.
The dark shape seemed to shrink again, coiling like a serpent, and out of the corner of her eye Alice saw a glimmer of light. Torchlight, passing over the window.
She turned her head, staring up at the window, and saw the horrified face peering in.
"Gabe!" she shouted, trying to point with her shattered arm. "She's in the—"
And the black shape hit her, taking her off her feet, smashing her into the bedroom door. She felt the door buckle against her back even as she kicked back at the thing, red socks passing through nothing at all. The creature drew back, holding her up like a broken doll, and she saw the torchlight move away. Then it slammed her into the door again, and everything went numb. She felt an awful weight on her chest, grinding her into the wood as it splintered and cracked around her.
It didn't matter. Gabe was here. She could hear the bedroom window breaking.
Helena began to move before she knew where she was going, pushing aside an old stuffed bear to crawl out from under the bed. She didn't know which way to run—to escape, to help her mother, to find her father—but she was alone and frightened and she had to move. For a moment she stared at the blue door, almost mesmerized, as something pushed against it from the other side, slowly forcing the crack open like an eggshell. Something was seeping through the crack, something dark and wet, trickling down the woodwork in thin jagged streams.
And then there was the blinding white light in her eyes, and that awful hissing in her head, and she heard shattering glass and someone calling her name . . .
"Helena! Come on!"
The voice woke her up. She knew that voice.
She turned from the door and ran, jumping up onto the bed, little bits of broken glass dancing around her feet as she reached for Gabe's hand. As he pulled her up the wall, she heard the bedroom door collapse. The awful hissing was still in the air, louder now, but she was halfway through the window and couldn't look back. Gabe was still pulling, but as her knees scraped over the windowsill she saw him digging his other hand into the pocket of his jeans. He drew his hand back out and pushed it past her, through the window, and she caught a glimpse of something shiny, with a silver chain. There was a flash, and a horrible smell, like that time her father had burnt the bacon, and the hissing broke into a shrill scream that tore through her head. Then her feet were under her and Gabe had her by the hand and they were running for the alleyway, past the globe and the blanket, and the Barbie doll with the melted head.
Will's coffee was stone cold.
"Fuck me," he said.
Mel sat back in her chair, arms folded. "They found them near the railway line, sitting under a lamp-post. Gabe wouldn't let anyone near her until his mother showed up."
Will picked up his cup, stared distastefully at the congealing contents, and put it to one side. "So they never found out . . . you know. What it was."
Mel shook her head. "Whatever it was, it was long gone before anyone else turned up. All they could do was clean up the mess."
"So . . . what happened then?"
Mel looked down at the leftover foam in the bottom of her second latte. "Hang on," she said, reaching for her bag. "I think I'm going to need another one of these."
Chapter 3
"I, um . . ." Helena hesitated, shifting on the couch, before going on. "I heard about your dad."
"Yeah, well . . . news like that travels."
Helena looked down. "Have you heard from your mother? I mean, does she know?"
"I tried to call her when I heard. I was in Turkey. Couldn't track her down before I got on the plane. Before that . . ." Gabe shrugged. "I don't remember the last time I spoke to her."
"That sucks."
Gabe nodded. "That's my mum." He looked down at the letter on the table. "So what are your plans? For the shop, I mean?"
Helena's face fell, as if she wanted to evade the subject a little longer. "That's what I've been trying to figure out," she admitted. "I avoided thinking about it for as long as I could. I've been thinking lately . . . maybe just let the place go. Sell up, I mean."
Gabe looked up. "Really?"
"Yeah. I just think . . . too many bad memories," she sighed. "It might be the best thing for me."
Gabe nodded. "So . . . ?"
Helena looked him in the eye. "I want to know what you think I should do."
Meliad returned to the table, carrying her third coffee of the morning, along with a large chocolate chip cookie. "Okay. Where was I?"
Will stared at her. "You have to ask?"
Mel smiled wearily. "Right. Sorry. Anyway—they closed up the shop after the funeral. Helena inherited it, of course, but the lawyer made arrangements until she was old enough. She had an uncle in town, Alice's brother, but he was a single career type. Besides, everybody thought it'd be better to get her away from Sundry. She ended up going to live with her grandmother and aunt up in Walcott's Bay. Been there ever since, as far as I know."
"What about Gabe?"
Nine days after the funeral
Gabe opened the door to the white hatchback and stepped out, pulling his backpack over his shoulder. He kept his eyes on the ground as he walked, cracked concrete and old gum and cigarette butts, until a pair of bare feet came into view. He looked up, past the green dress with the swirling pattern, and into a beautiful face wearing a faint smile.
"Hey, kid," said Mel.
Gabe reached into a pocket, and pulled something out. It was almost completely black, twisted and melted, but the ring around the cross could still be made out, and the chain was still attached. "It got burnt."
Mel took it from him, and looked it over. "Oh well," she said, and put her arm around him.
Hazel approached, dragging Gabe's suitcase over from the car. "All set, then." She looked around. "Where's—?"
"Upstairs," said Mel.
Hazel nodded, looking up at the window. "Best not, er . . ."
"Best not."
"Look, I'm sorry about this," Hazel sighed. "I don't mean to . . . It's just, with everything that's happened, y'know . . ."
"Yeah. Sure."
Hazel crouched to give Gabe a long hug and a kiss, and tell him she loved him. He hugged her back, half-heartedly, and mumbled something in response.
"So, where to this time?" Mel asked, as Hazel returned to the car.
Hazel opened the driver's door and climbed in. "France," she said, without looking back.
Mel nodded. "France is nice."
Hazel glanced over at her. "Yeah," she said, and shut the door.
"She ended up in Belgium," said Mel, over the rim of her latte.
"Oh."
"Gabe lived with us until he was fifteen. Slept on the sofa upstairs, went out with us on the job, when it wasn't too rough. Learned the trade from his old man, at least as much as he had to teach. Lazarus was good, but not as good as some."
"Did he see Helena again?"
"Once in a while." Picking up the cookie, Mel broke it in two and passed half to Will. "He went up to visit her a few times. Mostly phone calls or letters."
"Letters?"
"Yeah. No computer at her grandmother's house. Didn't hold with them, apparently." Mel smirked. "I can kinda see her point. Anyway, when Gabe was fifteen things started to get a little crazy in Roseburg, and Lazarus thought it was best to get the kid out of town for a while. He'd learned all he could around here, anyway. And he was getting too big for the couch." She broke off a piece of cookie, fiddling with it between her fingers. "And that's the last we saw of him for seven years."
"Where did he go?" asked Will, taking a bite from his half.
"Back to Sundry, for a couple of years. There were having a little lycanthrope problem, and an old . . . friend of the family was working down there. Took Gabe under his wing for a while. Then he was called back to Europe, when things started heating up with the Middling Lords. Gabe decided to go with him, see a bit of the world, learn from the old masters. Didn't keep in touch with anyone back home. Not even her." Mel leaned back and finally popped the piece of cookie into her mouth. "I think he saw her one last time before he left, though."
Ailis Flynn stood firm on the old farmhouse porch, hands folded in front of her, staring down at the tall, strapping boy on the path. "Is it Gabriel Pope, now?"
"Yes, ma'am," Gabe replied. They'd met several times in the past, but he always got the same greeting.
Mrs Flynn looked the boy up and down. Seventeen years of age, he was already solidly built, and wore practical hard-wearing clothes that had been patched here and there. The old woman's keen eyes picked out a telltale bloodstain near the cuff of his right trouser leg, and a fading scar on the side of his neck. "You look well."
"Thank you." Gabe cleared his throat. "Um. You, too."
Mrs Flynn's eyebrow twitched in a manner which told him that flattery would avail him nothing. She was a tall woman, though stooped with age, and it was apparent she'd been quite the beauty in her youth. She wore a plain brown dress and flat-soled shoes, and her hairstyle—although now a deep stormy grey—hadn't changed since 1942. It was true that she seemed remarkably sturdy for a woman of ninety-seven, although she'd slowed down a lot in the last few years. She walked without a cane—occasionally leaning against the table for support when she thought no one was watching—and still had most of her own teeth. Her eyesight was as sharp as ever, and she could hear a floorboard creak from two rooms away. The reason for her unusual vigour was a mystery to the locals in Walcott's Bay, although there had always been rumours about the Flynn family, and some of the things they'd gotten up to in the old country . . .
"I understand you've moved back to Sundry City."
"Yes, ma'am," Gabe replied. "Actually, it was two years a—"
"They tell me you're hangin' around that German lunatic."
Gabe frowned. "DeSilber?"
Mrs Flynn's grey eyes narrowed, drilling into him like diamond bits. "DeSilber."
"Um, yeah. You know him, then?"
"Knew him," Mrs Flynn corrected him, in a tone of voice which suggested the association had not been an amicable one. "Long while back now."
"I see."
"Never much cared for him. 'E was a—"
"Lunatic?"
For an instant, Gabe thought he saw the faintest hint of a smirk on the old woman's lips. "That 'e was. You're 'ere to see me granddaughter, then?"
"Yes. Is she here?"
"Course she's 'ere. It's her birthday, you know."
"I know." Gabe raised a hand, holding a small gift-wrapped box with a yellow ribbon. "That's why I'm here."
"She's thirteen. Growin' like a weed, that girl."
"Um, yeah. So she's in?"
Mrs Flynn looked past him, down the long gravel driveway that ran past the front paddock, to the dented old car parked on the distant road. "That DeSilber didn't drive you up 'ere, did he?"
"No, ma'am. I drove myself."
"Hmm. Well." The old woman seemed to relax slightly. "Alright then. Wipe your feet."
Helena was in her bedroom at the top of the stairs, the same room that Alice had occupied before leaving for university. Many of her things were still here two decades later, interspersed with the toys, books, clothes and other childhood paraphernalia her daughter had accumulated. The bed was new, but still had the engraved oak headboard and quilted bedspread from the old bed. Helena was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the mattress, surrounded by an assortment of clothing and cosmetics, while her Aunt Rose did her makeup. Helena's grandmother had always been very firm on the subject of "lipstick and such" but had relented to let Alice wear it at thirteen, and was held to the same deadline by every other girl who'd lived under her roof since. Rose, for her part, had recently bought her niece an entire bag of the stuff and was now going about the task with relish. Rose had always been a contrast to her dour mother, with her auburn hair and bubbling personality, yet had never had the adventurous spirit of her older siblings. At thirty-six years of age she still lived at the farm she would one day inherit, and other than a spot of holiday travelling in her twenties, she had never expressed a desire to leave Walcott's Bay.
Gabe paused in the hallway for a moment, watching them through the doorway. It had been over a year since he'd seen Helena in person, and the last photo he had was even older than that. Despite her grandmother's claim that she was "growing like a weed" she didn't seem much taller then he remembered, although she was no longer the gawky going-on-twelve-year-old with the stick-thin arms and oversized ears. Her hairstyle had changed, along with her wardrobe, and she was—for want of a better term—filling out. Gabe didn't want to think about that.
Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the doorframe. The two women in the room looked around.
"Um, hi," said Gabe, a little uncertainly. "Remember m—?" A moment later he stumbled back into the hallway, caught off-balance by the girl hanging from his neck.
"Hi, Gabe," Rose called from the bed.
"You're coming tonight, right?" Helena wanted to know.
Gabe hesitated. They were walking down the winding dirt path that led from the house to the back pond, where the geese would nest later in the year. "Coming where?"
"It's my birthday," Helena reminded. "Auntie Rose is taking me into town. We're going to pick up Cindy and Briar, and go to Flanagan's, and—"
Gabe felt a pit in his stomach. He spent most evenings training, or studying, or following his aged mentor through the back alleys of Sundry City in pursuit of werebeasts and other skulking things. Only last night he'd been cleaning ghoul brains off his boots. Nonetheless, the prospect of an evening spent at a bustling steakhouse in the company of three adolescent girls sent a chill down his spine. "Uh, actually I can only stay for a couple of hours. DeSilber needs me back by sunset, and it's a long drive, so . . ."
"Oh." Helena looked down, trying to hide her disappointment. "Well, you can stay for lunch, anyway." She slipped her hand around his elbow, hugging his arm as they walked.
"So . . ." Gabe fished around for a topic. "You going to Walcott High?"
She smiled. "Not much choice. Should be pretty cool, though. I know a lot of people going there, and the teachers seem okay. Rose says I should try out for the hockey team."
Gabe nodded, feigning a familiarity with all things high school. His teenage education had been divided between tutoring sessions with Mel and training with his father. He was beginning to wish he'd never brought it up.
They were almost at the pond when Helena asked, "So you're still living in Sundry?"
"Yeah. Well, kind of. We're in an old warehouse in Stackdown. I've got my own room, though. I think it used to be a boiler room."
Helena didn't seem to be listening. "So—have you ever . . . you know. Gone back."
Gabe kept his eyes on the water below. "Not really. Driven past it a few times. Stopped by the alley once, but I didn't go in."
Helena nodded. "Mr Jarndyce says I'll be taking over the place when I'm eighteen. Grandma thinks it's a bad idea."
"Up to you, I guess," said Gabe, with a shrug. "Don't have to worry about it for a while."
Helena leaned her head against his arm. "Oh, well. If I ever move back to Sundry, I'll have you there to look after me."
Gabe sighed, and came to a halt. "Um, yeah. Look. About that . . ."
Lunch was a relatively quiet affair. Rose sat next to Gabe and prattled on about various subjects, while he smiled and nodded and responded as best he could. Mrs Flynn sat at the head of the table, carefully chewing her food, sharp eyes moving back and forth between the others. Helena sat opposite Gabe, quietly pushing her food around the plate. She didn't look happy, or upset, or anything. She just seemed to be thinking.
An hour later, she walked Gabe down to the gate.
"We're leaving in about three days," Gabe told her. "So . . . guess this is it."
Helena nodded. "See you later, then."
Gabe looked uncomfortable. "Look, you know where I'm going, right? What I'll be doing."
"Yeah."
"I mean, I could be over there for a long time. It's gonna be rough. It's . . . I mean, I'm not sure I'll be coming back."
Helena looked down, hiding a smirk. "You know what my dad would say."
"What?"
"Never mind." Standing on tiptoe, she wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the cheek. "See you later."
"Yeah," Gabe mumbled, hugging her back. "Okay."
When they finally disconnected, Gabe turned to walk to the car. He had the door open before he suddenly remembered something. Shoving a hand into his coat pocket, he jogged back to the gate. "Sorry, almost forgot . . ." He placed a small white box on the gatepost, bound with a yellow ribbon. "Happy birthday."
And with that he about-faced, strode back to the car, and got in without looking back. By the time Helena had untied the ribbon, the car was accelerating down the road in a cloud of dust. Pulling the lid off the box, she looked down at the object inside.
With a faint smile, she put the lid back on, paused to tie back her dark hair with the ribbon, and walked back to the house.
"Urgh," Mel winced and held her head as they exited the cafe. "Why did you let me drink three coffees?"
"Had to keep you awake long enough to finish the story," Will chirped. "Speaking of which . . ."
Mel sighed and rubbed her eyes. "Oh, you know the rest. Gabe roamed around Europe killing stuff for the next five years. Came home six months ago, after Lazarus died. Helena grew up, had as normal a life as someone in her position can, and this morning she turned up on our doorstep. And we went out and had too much coffee. The end."
"I've had just enough, myself. Can I drive home?"
Mel sighed. "That's probably a good idea. I'm just wired enough not to care about red lights." She passed Will her keys and followed him down the pavement to where her moped was parked. "I just hope they're done."
"So?" Helena asked. "What do you think?"
Gabe shifted in his chair. "I . . . don't think I should. I mean, it's not my place, you know?"
Helena shook her head. "It was as much your home as mine. Mum always said so. Even if you didn't live there."
Gabe's thoughts went back to a conversation in his mother's car, twelve years ago.
"Besides," Helena went on, "you're the only other person who . . ." She swallowed, and it was moment before she could finish. "You're the only other person who was there. So?"
Gabe scratched his jaw. "You really want to sell the place? It's been in your family forever."
She responded with a shrug. "It's been closed down for twelve years anyway. And I can't . . . live there. I'm not even sure I can go in. The property itself isn't worth a lot, but I could find places to unload all the stock. I'd have to be careful who I sold some of it too, but my family still have their contacts. I could start over, use the money to . . ." Helena waved her hands, then dropped them back into her lap. "I don't know. I could travel. I've always wanted to see Europe. Not the same parts you went to, of course . . ."
Gabe nodded earnestly. "The hostels in Temhovia are pretty terrible."
Helena smiled, but only for a moment.
Eventually Gabe said, "I think you're right."
"Really?"
"Yeah. It's really your decision, but you probably should just cut loose. Make a fresh start." He nodded. "Best thing for you."
It was a long time before Helena answered.
"Goddamn it," she cursed, dropping her head. "I was afraid you'd say that."
Gabe frowned. "What?"
Helena raised her head, an exasperated look on her face. "That isn't what I should do, Gabe. I'm telling you what I want to do. We both know what I should do."
Gabe looked lost. "I was, um . . . trying to be supportive . . ."
"Well, cut it out," Helena snapped. "I came to you because I knew you'd tell me the right thing to do." She looked down at the letter on the table. "Or confirm it, anyway."
"Well, in that case," Gabe sighed, "I guess you've got your answer."
A sad smile crept onto Helena's face. "Guess so."
Gabe looked at the letter, then to the bookshelves across the room. He ran his eyes along the jumbled collection of old volumes lining the shelves, until they came to rest on the books at the far end. His father's journals, laid out in meticulous order, left unfinished.
"Gravity always wins, eh?"
Helena didn't answer. She picked up the letter and slipped it back into her pocket.
Will climbed stiffly off the moped, his face twisted into a painful grimace. "They need to do something about the roads in this town."
Mel wheeled the moped into its little alcove on one side of the alley, swinging the gate shut behind it. "We'll get right on it after we're done with the vampires."
Will leaned backwards until something in his back clicked. "Well, can we at least take the van next . . . oh."
Mel looked around. Helena had emerged from the side door of the Fisher Building, pulling on her jacket. She smiled at Will as she passed him, and he sheepishly smiled back.
"Where's Gabe?" Mel asked, snapping the padlock on the gate.
"Upstairs. Just said goodbye."
"Oh." Mel nodded. "Well, sorry we didn't get much of a chance to . . . um."
"Yeah. Still, it was nice meeting you at last." Helena looked down and shuffled her feet. "Listen . . ." Leaning towards Mel, she lowered her voice a little. "I meant to give this to Gabe, but I felt weird about just handing it to him. Could you maybe give it to him for me?"
Mel looked down. Helena's hand was extended, holding a small white cardboard box. A slightly tattered yellow ribbon was tied around it. "It's just something he gave me a while ago," Helena explained. "Now that he's back . . . well, I probably don't need it."
"Uh, yeah." Mel took the box. "Sure."
"Bye, then." Helena turned and walked off down the alley, twirling her car keys. Will offered a half-hearted wave.
"So where you headed?" Mel called after her.
Helena looked back with a smile. "Sundry's nice."
Mel smiled back. "That's what I hear."
Will watched Helena until she vanished around the corner. "That is one weird chick," he pointed out.
Untying the yellow ribbon, Mel lifted the lid off the box. Will looked over her shoulder at the object inside. It was burnt black and melted out of shape, but the cross could still be seen, and the silver chain was still attached.
Will frowned. "Am I missing something?"
Mel smiled and replaced the lid, reaching over to tousle his hair. "Usually."