“Pilot joined us for one evening. She’s a good companion, such an intelligent contrast to Dresden. She’s moving to Geneva. Told me of a remote valley that I’d like. I’ll go to see it, travel with her. It sounds a suitable place for visitors.
“Pilot seemed taken with the girl. I couldn’t be bothered to argue. I think Pilot is somewhat under Dresden’s spell—though I don’t think that will last long either.”
That’s all Van reads and I don’t feel like discussing it.
I walk to the corner of the room, sit on the floor, and lean against the wall. I wonder about my father. I do believe he loved my mother and I’m sure she loved him. But she was married to another man, to a White Witch, one of her own, and maybe she did try to make that work. Gran told me that my mother agreed to see Marcus once a year, when it was totally safe. But there’s no such thing as totally safe and their final meeting ended in disaster: her husband dead and me conceived. And because of me my mother was forced to kill herself. As for Marcus, what did he get? Not even one meeting a year but a son who’s predicted to kill him.
So it’s not surprising if he sought solace, sought love, elsewhere. I can’t blame him. I wish he’d found it. But I think it’s clear it didn’t happen, and Dresden doesn’t sound like a promising candidate. She definitely smacks of desperation.
He must feel very alone. Totally alone.
And I look across the room at Gabriel and Annalise and I know they love me and I love them and maybe with the Alliance we have a chance of changing the world and making things better, not just for me but for those who care about me.
Gabriel comes over to sit with me.
I say, “You’re speaking to Annalise.”
“Know your enemy,” he replies but smiles.
I’m not sure if he’s joking so I say, “She’s not your enemy.”
“Don’t worry. I’m being polite. We’re both being very polite.” He holds up another of Mercury’s diaries, saying, “Annalise found this; she thought I should read it to you.”
“In Berlin, what was East Berlin. Rain. Damp apartment. Met Wolfgang. Haven’t seen him for twenty years. He looks much the same, only a few more lines on his face. But he’s different: weary, older obviously, and surprisingly a lot wiser too. He wasn’t happy to see me and he made the point that he was leaving for South America now he had.
“He’d spent a few days of the previous month with Marcus. They were never exactly close friends but then Marcus has no friends, though for some reason Wolfgang was one person Marcus could put up with, one person who didn’t irritate him. It is Marcus who has irritated Wolfgang, offended Wolfgang, as he offends all people eventually, by killing someone Wolfgang loved. Wolfgang’s friend Toro, it seems, irritated Marcus in the extreme and Marcus killed him. Toro was jealous of their friendship, Marcus dismissive, then angry, and then violent. Toro sounds like a fool and Wolfgang admitted as much but he says, ‘Marcus knew that. He could have let him go, let him live, but he has this power thing and no patience. None. I mean, not even for a second before the whole animal thing takes over. He can control it but he chooses not to. He killed Toro. Ripped him apart. I found them. Marcus covered in blood. Covered in Toro.’
“Wolfgang went on to say, ‘Marcus should have killed me. I could see he was thinking about it. He washed himself and chunks of Toro fell off him, off his shoulder; a piece was stuck on his arm. He washed in the lake and dressed and walked up to me and I’m sure he was thinking of killing me—not eating me, not that—but just killing me, cold-blooded, with a bolt of lightning or whatever he chose. But he didn’t. I think that’s all about his power too. He takes life, he doesn’t take it. He can do what he likes.’
“Marcus had said to him, ‘I know you don’t believe me, Wolfgang, but part of me is sorry about Toro: the part of me that loves you. I know you hate me for killing him. I think you should go. Don’t come back.’
“Wolfgang’s response was: ‘I left. That was a month ago.’
“He was quiet. A tear ran down his cheek and I thought it was because of Toro but it was because of what he was about to tell me. Because he was about to betray Marcus.
“He told me where Marcus was living. He said, ‘He’ll have moved on but it shows you the sort of place he likes. Always places like that. That is where he feels comfortable. That is where he can make a safe place to live.’
“And I have to say I’m surprised. Marcus has no home. He lives mostly like an animal. In a den. A den made of sticks. Partly underground. A small clearing near a lake. He spends long periods as an animal. He hunts and eats as an animal. Wolfgang says, ‘Sometimes it’s as if he’s losing his humanity.’
“Wolfgang asked him about the infamous vision that his son would kill him. Marcus said, ‘Yes, Wolfie, I believe it. I’ve avoided Nathan all my life. Best put it off for as long as possible, don’t you think? The inevitable. Or do I get it over with?’
“Wolfgang thought Marcus was so lonely, so sad, that part of him, the human part, wanted to get it over with but ironically the animal in him was the part that wanted to live. Marcus told him, ‘As an eagle I know nothing. I feel nothing but flying and living. Imagine that . . . wonderful . . . forever.’
“Wolfgang told me that Marcus meets others only rarely, to keep aware of what’s happening within the different witch communities and to hear any news of his son. That is his only real interest in the human world now—Nathan. For the rest, I think he’d gladly leave it all behind. Marcus washes, pampers himself, and dresses smartly for the few occasions he meets others. There’s still a lot of vanity left in him: he still likes to look in the mirror and the human side comes back. But when he’s in the woods he’s wild.
“Wolfgang said, ‘Wild is an interesting word. We imagine wild to be untamed and out of control but, of course, nature isn’t like that; nature is controlled, ordered, extremely disciplined by all its elements. Animals in herds have leaders and followers; there are disputes but still there is an organization. And animals hunt in certain ways, at certain times and for certain kinds of prey—it is terribly predictable. Marcus is like that—know his ways and you’ll find him. And, if you have his son, eventually he’ll come to you.’”
Gabriel looks back a few pages in the book. “This was dated just a year ago. Mercury must have thought she’d won the lottery when you came looking for her.”
The Cut
The day wears on and I’m still sitting on the floor of the library, watching the others reading through the diaries. Van finds a reference to Pilot visiting Mercury at the bunker and then leaving to go to Basle.
“Basle is a historic meeting place,” Van says. “It sounds like one of the cuts comes out there.”
“I was thinking about Pilot,” I say. “If I have access to Pilot’s memories about Mercury then I must have a memory of going through the cut. But I can’t find anything. Even the images of her building dams are getting fainter.”
Van looks over to me. “The memories will fade if you don’t access them. Alas, we didn’t realize that the cuts would be important. Before, you were focusing on the outside and a place name.”
That’s when Nesbitt shouts, “Bingo!”
He’s at the other end of the library, looking through scrolls of maps. He walks over to the central table, carrying one, a big grin on his face.
“Of course,” Van says as she looks at it. “Mercury made a map of her cuts.”
I get up to look. At least I can read maps.
It looks similar to the map I made of the bunker. Nesbitt points to a small, fine blue line in one of the rooms. “Each blue line is a cut and each one is numbered. There are eleven. The key says this one goes to Germany.” He points to others. “These go to Spain. New York. Algeria. This one is ‘Switzerland: closed.’”
Van lights a cigarette and says, “So. We need a couple of volunteers to check out one of the cuts.”
&nb
sp; Gabriel and I look at each other and grin.
* * *
Van wants us to go through the cut to Germany, as it appears to come out near Basle where the next Alliance meeting is. That cut is in a room down one of the corridors off the great hall. We all go there. It’s a small room, bare except for a thick rug.
“But where exactly is the cut?” Annalise asks.
Gabriel moves to the middle of the rug, saying, “Only one way to find it. I think she’d land on the rug when she came through so . . .” He takes a step nearer to the back wall and slides his hand into the air, feeling for the cut. He moves his hand just a centimeter or two along for each try, working his way sideways. He finds nothing. He repeats the process, this time lower, still moving along slowly. Then he repeats it again and then one more time before he snaps his hand back, saying, “It’s there.”
Van claps her hands. “Excellent!”
Annalise says, “I’ve been thinking about Mercury having visitors. She wouldn’t want them coming through and wandering around her home without her knowing. Would she have a trespass spell in here like the one on the roof of the cottage in Switzerland? Would you need her to help you across the boundary when you get back?”
“She never allowed anyone she didn’t trust here,” Van says. “Her diaries only show Rose and Pilot gaining entry. She believed no one would find the cuts. I don’t think there’s a trespass spell.”
“So let’s test it out,” Nesbitt says, eager to get on.
“Yes,” Van agrees and looks at me and Gabriel. “All you have to do is go through. Find out where in Germany you come out: nearest roads, towns, transport. Check for Hunters, of course. And report back.”
So that’s us told.
Gabriel grabs my hand in his and interlocks our fingers, puts his sunglasses on, and says to the others, “We’ll be back.” He slides his left hand into the cut and we’re sucked through.
I breathe out slowly as I twirl through the darkness: a tip from Nesbitt. I suspect it’s a trick and will really make me feel worse. There’s dim light ahead, which brightens briefly as we land on grassy ground. I’m surprised that I don’t feel anywhere near as dizzy and ill as previous trips through cuts have left me.
We’re in a forest by a ruined stone building. The air is still and quiet. The trees are full of summer’s green richness. It’s hot too. There is birdsong and I can hear distant traffic.
I say to Gabriel, “Cars. That way,” and indicate to my left with a nod.
He’s already feeling around for the cut. “Gotcha,” he says, and smiles.
“So that was easy,” I say. “Now what?”
“Let’s head to the road, see if we can work out where we are.”
* * *
That evening we’re back round the table. Things are going well. We’ve been through two cuts. The one in the small, bare room leads to the place we went to in Germany, which is 150 kilometers from Basle according to the road signs. The cut in Mercury’s bedroom goes to a place in Spain in the mountains. We went through that cut and walked to the nearest village and found it on an atlas when we got back. It’s a couple of hours’ walk from Pilot’s home.
Van is meeting with the White rebels tomorrow morning and she wants me and Nesbitt to go but I want Gabriel with me and I can’t leave Annalise.
“We’re all in the Alliance. We all go,” I say.
Die Rote Kürbisflasche
We all came through the cut last night. Nesbitt got a car and drove us to the outskirts of Basle. Now Nesbitt, Gabriel, and me are in the center of the city. We’re the advance party, on the lookout for Hunters. Van and Annalise are following us in.
Basle is a city of young people, it seems, on the border of Germany, France, and Switzerland, but I hear English spoken too. There are tourists, families, and people going to work. We try to blend in with them but we don’t look like tourists or a family, though I suppose we are going to work. Nesbitt knows the way to the meeting place at Die Rote Kürbisflasche—the Red Gourd—and he’s taking us the long route.
Nesbitt says that the Red Gourd is a bar in the oldest part of town. We cross the wide, fast-flowing river and make a circuit of the hill on which the old town is built. We see no Hunters. We take it slow and work our way in spirals up the hill, the cobbled streets getting narrower and older as we go. There are fewer and fewer people until we reach an alley with only a cat walking down it and an old woman cleaning her windows. We don’t go down the alley but walk away and wait and return half an hour later. The old woman has disappeared and so has the cat. We haven’t seen any Hunters.
Halfway down the alley is a wooden door, and above that, hanging out over the street, rather than a written sign, is a metal gourd, small and more rusty orange than red. This is the place.
The door is oak and almost black with age. Nesbitt pushes it open and enters. Gabriel is ahead of me and he holds his arm up toward me as an indication to go slow and take care. We move forward, down four stone steps which curve to the left, and go through a dull red, heavy, woven curtain that hangs from a black metal rail.
We’re in a low-ceilinged, narrow room with a bar running the length of the wall and a number of wooden tables with red candles on them and chairs with red padded seats. Behind the bar is a tanned, middle-aged man with spiky blond hair and intense blue eyes with black glints crackling in them. A Black Witch.
Nesbitt greets him and introduces us. The barman is called Gus. When he’s introduced to me he doesn’t shake my hand as he does Gabriel’s. He says in a strong German accent, “Half and half, eh?”
Nesbitt laughs. “You got that right: half human, half animal.”
Gabriel says, “And always pissed off—though I can’t imagine why when he’s in your company, Nesbitt.”
“Anyone else here yet?” Nesbitt asks Gus.
“Celia and a Half Blood girl with her. Two more Whites due any minute.”
So Celia has avoided being caught since we last saw her in Barcelona.
I walk to the end of the room to check it out. There’s a cubicle at the far end and it’s occupied. I expect to see Celia but she isn’t there. A girl is. She stands when she sees me and smiles.
“Good to see you, Ivan,” she says. “You’re looking as scruffy as usual.”
I go to her and put my arms round her. “Nikita.” And it really is her, my friend from London. I keep hold of her. She feels small and I look at her face, still so young, her eyes that amazing blue-green of Half Bloods.
“It’s good to see you, Ellen,” I say.
She suits the name Nikita better. That’s what she said her name was the first time we met, when I called myself Ivan. But, whatever she’s called, I trust her totally. I hug her again.
She smiles. “You’ll ruin your reputation. You’re supposed to be mean and moody.”
Nesbitt appears at my shoulder and says, “Don’t worry, kid, he can change in an instant.”
I don’t, though. I really am in a great mood, seeing Ellen again.
I introduce her to Gabriel and Nesbitt and, while she explains who she is to Gabriel, I scan her face, trying to gauge if she has any news, any bad news, from the world of White Witches.
She says to me, “I know you’re worried about Arran but he’s fine. He’s left London and is on his way to France. I’m going up to meet him after we leave here.”
“He’s joining the rebels?”
“Yes. Things are moving fast now. It’s all gone crazy. The Hunters attacked a gathering of Black Witches outside Paris a week ago. Twenty were killed in the fighting and the rest were captured; the adults were taken prisoner but the children were executed. Jessica had them all hanged. Soul put out an announcement about it, saying it was an important victory and a step forward for all White Witches. He said the children didn’t have to suffer Retribution in this case, that he was being lenient. But the adults h
e took aren’t to suffer Retribution either. He’s using them for research into witch abilities.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Basically Wallend is experimenting on them.”
I shake my head but somehow I feel I shouldn’t be surprised. “He’s sick” is all I can think to say.
“The Council says that it’s valid research for the protection of all White Witches. Course no one knows exactly how this will protect them, but the Council says that anyone who objects is against White Witches and is supporting Blacks. Everyone is having to declare which side they’re on. And most of the White Witches are saying they support Soul and Wallend.”
“And Deborah?” I ask. “Is she in France with Arran?”
“You’d better ask Celia about her. That info’s above my pay grade.”
“And what is your pay grade? Aren’t you a little young to be a rebel fighter, Ellen?”
“I’m not a fighter; I’m a scout. But, Nathan, you have no idea how useless most White Witches are. Honestly, most of them are like fains; none of them have ever learned how to fight. They left it all up to the Hunters. The best you can say about them is that they’re good at healing potions. The most useful people in the Alliance are the ex-Hunters and the Half Bloods. Except there are only two ex-Hunters and nine Half Bloods.”
“What about Black Witches?” I ask.
“Some have joined but few have your skills, Nathan.” I reel round to face Celia, who continues: “Which is why we’re grateful that you’re here.”
“I don’t care how grateful you are.” I swear at her and my hand is on my knife. “Keep away from me, Celia. I’m serious. Don’t sneak up on me.”