‘Ladies,’ he boomed, showering both Skylurian and Raven with spittle. ‘I am most honoured to make your acquaintance! Michel, bring them cocktails at once! They will drink Black Manhattans like the rest of us, although perhaps a non-alcohol version for the little lady.’ He winked at Raven.
‘Actually, sir, the Black Manhattan only has alcohol in it,’ said Michel, who seemed to be the barman. As well as having its own private restaurant, the Presidential Suite seemed to have its own bar.
‘I’m fine with water,’ said Raven. ‘Thank you.’
‘Oh, piffle,’ said Skylurian. ‘The girl is so quaint. She’ll have a Virgin Mary with all the trimmings.’
The barman started making the drinks. Skylurian’s came in a cocktail glass and was black with a dark red cherry on the top. Raven’s was an alarmingly bright red with a stick of celery in it. She tried it and found that it was tomato juice with a lot of different spicy things in it. That was all right. Raven liked spicy things.
Albion Freake was not alone. As well as the many hotel staff that bustled around refilling drinks and handing out canapés, the room contained seven other people. Raven noticed that there was only one other woman, and she was extremely beautiful. She must be Freake’s wife or girlfriend. She was wearing a pale rose gown with the lower part of the skirt made from pink feathers and white fur. Two great plumes of pink feathers erupted from the top of her chest as if she was in fact a real bird. She was sitting stiffly on a red chair.
The men looked like thinner, more anxious versions of Albion Freake. One of them had a large black case that he didn’t seem to want to let out of his sight. The atmosphere in the room was difficult to read, although Raven had always been good with atmosphere. The beautiful woman in the pale rose gown caught Raven’s eye and then looked away, as if . . . What was it . . .? What was it . . .? Raven began to sense the feeling in the room.
It was mistrust. It was fear. Raven and Skylurian looked at one another. Yes, they could both feel it. These Americans were wondering whether or not to murder them. And whether to do it now, or later.
As soon as Skylurian and Raven had been seated on the immaculate cream suede sofa in the slightly too-warm reception area of the suite, Skylurian opened her large leopard-skin clutch bag and drew out of it the limited-edition single-volume edition of The Chosen Ones, bound in calf leather and edged in real gold.
‘I expect you’ve been dying to see this, darling,’ Skylurian said to Albion Freake. ‘To touch it. To own it. Well, wait no more. It is yours.’
She passed the book to him. Raven noticed her hand tremble ever so slightly.
‘I thought maybe you were coming to tell me it could not be done,’ Freake said, stroking the cream cover of the book. He looked around at his lackeys suspiciously. ‘Everyone usually lets me down. But you’ve really nailed this, honey. My very own private luxury book. I will see you are rewarded.’
‘I think we agreed on a billion,’ said Skylurian.
‘A billion dollars,’ said Albion, nodding. ‘Cheap at half the price! HAHA! Joking. OK, Mike, transfer a billion dollars to the lady’s account, please.’
‘Ahem,’ said Skylurian.
‘What is it, sweetheart?’
‘It was actually a billion pounds.’
‘Pounds, dollars, who cares? Pay the broad.’
The man with the black case put it on the table and opened it up to reveal a very old-looking black Bakelite telephone with a silver dial. He plugged it into some kind of modem and some sort of mini-computer and then into the wall. He began to dial a very long number with quite a lot of nines in it. Everyone watched, mesmerised, as the dial made its slow way back each time, making a long, lazy buzzing sound. Raven knew all about dial-up modems, of course. Maximilian used one to get on the dim web. But she’d never seen one you actually had to physically dial yourself.
The beautiful woman caught Raven’s eye again, but, again, looked away. What was she trying to say? Raven already knew she was in danger. If Albion Freake didn’t get her, then Skylurian would.
‘Of course,’ said Albion Freake to Skylurian Midzhar, as the man dialled the numbers, ‘you will be able to give me evidence of the destruction of every other copy of this . . . this . . . What’s the damn thing called again? The Chosen Ones.’
‘Of course, darling,’ said Skylurian. ‘But I’ve planned something far better than that. Tomorrow, as arranged, you will come to the Town Hall to draw the prize we agreed. You are going to give some lucky person free electricity for life, if you remember.’
‘Wait, lady. I never said I was actually going to do that.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s just for show. The winner will of course be dealt with and won’t trouble you any more.’ Skylurian smiled, but looked ever so slightly as if she might throw up at any moment.
Raven felt oddly tired. Whenever she was near Skylurian she felt lacking in energy and fatigued. For a while Raven had thought this was simply because they didn’t get on. But the feeling was getting worse, and worse and . . .
It’s because she’s a trickster, and she’s draining you, said a voice in Raven’s head. You need to escape from her.
What? Where was the voice coming from? It had to be a mage, if it could get inside her mind. It had a female voice. Female and American . . . Raven realised it was Albion Freake’s young wife. It had to be. She was the only other woman in the room, apart from Skylurian.
I think you might need to escape too, Raven said back with her mind, but she didn’t know if the woman had picked it up or not.
‘Tomorrow we will be taking possession of the last remaining ten copies of The Chosen Ones, owned by its most passionate fans,’ said Skylurian, ‘and then we’re going to take the Superfans, and the books, to the moors and burn them.’
‘The fans too?’ said Albion Freake, laughing.
‘No, of course not,’ lied Skylurian.
‘I’ve never seen one of your British moors,’ said Albion Freake. ‘I think I might own one, but I’ve never been to it. I think we’re planning to make it into a golf course.’
‘Well, tomorrow, you shall see one in its untouched pagan glory,’ said Skylurian, gaily. ‘There will be a meteor shower as well, which we will see particularly well from the moor. We will also have the author with us, and she will take a central role in the sacrifice – I mean, ceremony. We will go to the moors and burn the last books by the light of the first evening stars and then we will conduct the official handing-over ceremony while meteors crash and burn above us. Of course, in the meantime you must look after the limited-edition single volume. It is yours after all. But do bring it along tomorrow so that we can take some pictures for your scrapbook.’
Everyone in the room relaxed slightly. The book was, of course, worthless until those last ten copies were destroyed. Since their destruction could not take place without Skylurian Midzhar, she would probably be allowed to live for another day. But Albion Freake had never, ever done any kind of business deal in which the other person had survived.
‘And then after this we’ll move on every other book in the world, eh, sugar?’ Freake was addressing the beautiful woman in the pale rose dress.
‘But—’ she began.
‘Don’t argue with me, Frankincense, honey,’ said Freake. ‘You know I don’t like it when we argue. Be happy for me? Is that too much to ask? I’ve just acquired the first book in our ultimate private, luxury library. Soon there will be no books in the world except the ones I own. Can you not even pretend to be happy about that?’
Raven couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. Had Effie actually been wrong? Was Albion Freake not a Book Eater after all? Or maybe it was just a lot worse than they’d thought. Could it be that he planned to create this library of last editions and then give himself ultimate power by eating all the books at once? Raven took a particularly spicy mouthful of Virgin Mary and then tried to pretend she wasn’t spluttering and choking. She could feel her face going redder and redder. Skyluri
an kicked her with her pointed Dior shoe.
‘Ow,’ said Raven.
‘There some sort of problem, little lady?’ asked Albion Freake, turning his waxy gaze on her.
‘No. Sorry,’ said Raven. ‘Sounds, um, really great.’
‘What does?’
‘Your library,’ said Raven.
‘See,’ Freake said to Frankincense. ‘The little girl understands better than you do.’
26
The Cosmic Web was in full flow that Thursday night. It told of the young, kind witch, Raven Wilde, currently prisoner of the great trickster Skylurian Midzhar, and now locked in her bedroom at the top of the folly, being guarded by the long-haired author who smelled of cheese. It told of her mother, the red-haired one who writes of fictional magic, sending messages from the moor, and Raven sending long replies with a mirror and a candle from her bedroom window.
Elsewhere there were two black-clad children cooking up a revenge plot, and their teacher reading an old leather-bound book on the movements of the heavens, and frowning.
There was much else besides, including the young mage, Maximilian Underwood, lately arrived from the Underworld with a vial of the most precious deepwater, which he was now taking to give to his friend Euphemia Truelove.
The prophecy, that Euphemia was due to die today – for midnight had now passed, and it was already Friday – was beginning to fade. But the Cosmic Web was heavy with such prophecies this dark, moonless night. It felt strongly that many people were going to die before the clock next struck midnight. Of course, it couldn’t do anything about such deaths. All it could do was talk of them, anticipate them and then record them for posterity.
Maximilian Underwood, recently the young star of many of the Cosmic Web’s stories, had arrived back at the piano recital just as Raven Wilde and Skylurian Midzhar had sat down for dinner in the private restaurant in Albion Freake’s hotel suite. The Cosmic Web didn’t understand exactly how Maximilian had made it back to the Realworld, although it did note the precise location of Maximilian’s re-emergence: the Modernism shelf in Leonard Levar’s Antiquarian Bookshop. It was as if there was some sort of portal there, a portal the Cosmic Web did not understand.
The bookshop had been locked, but luckily Maximilian found he could open the door from the inside. Interestingly, the shop seemed recently to have been occupied. There was an empty sports drink bottle on the counter, and an orange peel. But Maximilian hadn’t had time to think about that. He’d hurried back to the piano recital and found that only a few minutes had passed since he’d left. The pianist had just begun the third movement of the Pathétique.
Maximilian took his seat again next to Mr Starling.
‘Needed the loo, did you, boy?’ his neighbour asked.
‘Yes, sorry,’ whispered Maximilian.
‘Shhh!’ said an old lady behind him.
Maximilian touched the silver vial hanging around his neck. Soon he’d be able to go and help his friend. The only real problem he faced was accidentally popping off back to the Underworld during the third movement of the second sonata in the recital, Les Adieux, which was quite the most beautiful piece of music he had ever heard. Now that he had the technique, it was hard not to let it happen. But he managed to remain in the Realworld. After he had said goodnight to Mr Starling, he hurried to Effie’s house and knocked on her window.
And the Cosmic Web saw, and the Cosmic Web recorded, and the Cosmic Web broadcast everything that happened. It spread the word of the joyful news that Effie Truelove, potential saviour of all, recently restored to health by her own fearlessness and the bravery of her friend, might not die this coming night after all. But Raven Wilde? The Cosmic Web suddenly couldn’t be certain if she would survive this moon or not.
Such is the mysterious way of the world.
Effie woke on Friday morning feeling completely different. The water Maximilian had given her the night before had healed her completely. The Yearning was gone. So many sensations rolled over her that she had trouble keeping up with them. She felt happy, that was the main thing. So happy. But she also felt strong. Not just physically strong, but as if nothing could harm her, not even prison, torture or death. Whatever happened to her she would still be Effie. And if she died, she’d at least have been (probably) trying to save the world. All her fear was gone.
Everything felt beautiful and magnificent to Effie. The air smelled sweet. Her breakfast – one stale piece of toast with Marmite, a small bowl of yogurt and a cup of tea – was the most delicious meal she had ever eaten. She wanted lots of people around her so that she could share some of this feeling, but she also wanted to go off and hide, alone, so no one would think she was odd, because she could not stop grinning. It was such a very real sensation of joy that Effie was sure it was visibly surrounding her in great silver and gold waves, and anyone who came close to her couldn’t help but be part of it. And she wanted to share it so very much. Despite its power, the feeling was also oddly calm and gentle. It felt as if it could never, ever run out.
She was completely better, thanks to Maximilian, her very best friend in the world. She now had so much lifeforce that she wouldn’t run out for a very long time. She’d be able to go back to the Otherworld and see her cousins and Cosmo. But most importantly she’d be able to lead her friends in their fight against the Diberi. She wondered what Wolf and Lexy had been able to find out last night. And she also wondered what had happened to Raven. She felt that all would be resolved today.
‘Well, I don’t know what’s made you all so cheerful,’ said Cait over breakfast.
It was clear that Orwell had also been blessed with a feeling of unusual well-being this morning. Why? Well, today he was going to make a lot of money, simply from taking a silly children’s book to the Town Hall! And then next week he was probably going to get promoted. That’s what Professor Quinn had said. And it was almost the weekend. His new friend Terrence Deer-Hart had promised to bring more wine and cheese. Life was looking up. Everyone was happy. Even baby Luna gurgled away contentedly in her high chair and threw spoonfuls of yogurt at the wall without anyone stopping her.
The only member of the family who didn’t seem happy was Cait. After the night of cheese (as she had come to think of it) she was back on another diet, which meant only drinking milkshakes called Shake Your Stuff throughout the day. She was also reading another one of the awful paperbacks that came free with the giant tubs of powder. This one had an image on the front of a woman tied to a railway line. It was as if she didn’t really want to read it, but also couldn’t stop herself.
Which made Effie sort of wonder. What was it about those books? Whenever Cait was near one, she couldn’t help picking it up. But Cait was a post-doctoral fellow at the university. She was highly intelligent. OK, there’d been that period when she’d read a lot of children’s books, but at least they’d been good books. And most of the time she read medieval manuscripts. So why was she so drawn to these silly, cheap-looking novels?
When Cait and the others had gone up to the bathroom, Effie had a proper look at the thin volume. It was published by the Matchstick Press, like all of them.
And printed in Walthamstow.
As Effie opened it and started reading the first page, she felt a strange urge to carry on, as if the book was enchanted. Effie suddenly realised that the book was enchanted. Like all Matchstick Press books, it had been slightly cursed in such a way as to become compelling and addictive as soon as it was opened. But Effie was too strong for the enchantment to take hold, and she threw the book down on the table in disgust. She was becoming more and more sure about what had been going on in Walthamstow. But what she didn’t understand was exactly how everything fitted together.
Skylurian Midzhar needed to be stopped, that was certain. But stopped from doing what? And what was Albion Freake’s part in it all? There was no school today because of the event in the Town Hall, so Effie would have to wait until then to see her friends and try to put it all together. There wa
s something she was missing, still. But what was it?
The atmosphere around the Town Hall was tense, but full of excitement. Television camera-operators and journalists jostled for position around the pale neo-classical columns by the entrance. No one wanted to miss the story of the winner of the greatest competition there’d been for years. Free electricity for life! And with the elusive Albion Freake awarding the prize himself. The winner would probably cry, and every person in possession of a camera wanted a good close-up of the tears.
Orwell Bookend had to park quite a long way away, under the Butterwalk near the Esoteric Emporium. But he didn’t care. Nothing was going to ruin his day. Not even having to wear this stupid badge that said SUPERFAN on it. Orwell Bookend told himself it would be worth it if he were to be awarded the top prize. Everyone spent at least two-thirds of their salary on electricity nowadays, but even then it was necessary to have mostly cold baths, and only ever to use one bar of your three-bar heater. Unlimited free electricity was simply unimaginable. And with Orwell’s upcoming promotion as well . . . He could play records! Switch the lights on! Watch television again! Life would be sweet once more.
And even if he didn’t win the electricity, he was still going to be given a thousand pounds. Yes, that was to be the reward for the last ten Superfans to give up their beloved copies of The Chosen Ones. Orwell thought that he might even buy his daughter something nice. After all, it had been her book. Maybe a new school cape to replace the tatty one she’d got from the second-hand basket. And as well as a thousand pounds, he and his family were going to be given a free lunch at a gala before the presentations this afternoon.
Effie was lost in her own thoughts in the back of the car next to baby Luna. She was wearing her favourite outfit, the one she had worn when she’d defeated a dragon during her first journey to Truelove House. Jeans, a T-shirt with a star on it, studded ankle boots and a fitted blazer that made her look at least two years older than she was. She also wore her favourite shoulder bag, which Pelham Longfellow had got for her in the Otherworld.