The Midnight Hour Page 11

  “You can’t take those coins to her. Look what just touching them did to me.” He levered himself up and reached toward her. He was a long way from the manhole. “She must have something terrible planned. Please!”

  She sat back from the hole and ran her fingers through her tangled hair.

  “I promise, promise, that I’ll make sure it’s okay before I do it, but I have to get my mom and dad back. It’s all my fault they’re here.”

  She flung her hands out in annoyance.

  “And I don’t want to leave you in the hole, but you’re totally going to do something stupid if I try and get you out, aren’t you?”

  He folded his arms, jutted his jaw, and tried to look dignified, despite something brown dripping from his ear.

  “My duty is clear.”

  “I knew it. You absolute idiot.”

  She sighed.

  “Right, I’m sorry, Tarkus, I truly am, but you’ll just have to stay there for a bit. I promise I’ll tell someone to send help, but, you know, probably not immediately.”

  “You are making a terrible decision.”

  “We’ll see, won’t we? Don’t suppose you want to tell me the way to Dunlivin, do you?”

  His howl of outrage was answer enough.

  “Thought so. Right, well, chin up, eh? Think nice-smelling thoughts.”

  From behind her, in the hole, came the most unusual noise—a wet, soggy, extended raspberry. Then, as the foul liquid cleared, the raspberry began to fade away, and soon a whistle began to peal out: Tarkus’s whistle, clear and silver as the moonlight, calling the Night Watch to render help to an officer in need.

  Pausing only to pick up her half-full cone of chips from the floor, Emily ran into the night.

  Well, that went well. How to win friends and influence people, the Featherhaugh way.

  Emily picked her way through grimy streets and alleys along the Thames with yet another friendship set on fire behind her. All alone with no idea where she was going. She munched her last cold, miserable chip, licked her fingers, and looked around for somewhere to put the paper. There was a pile of trash in the mouth of an alleyway and no bins in sight, so she crumpled the cone up into a ball and tossed it on the pile.

  She had turned away when the pile shifted and about half of it stood up, stretched, and yawned. It was a small … woman? With an outfit made of trash and an odor to match. And now with a chip-paper hat.

  She looked at Emily, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “You leaving that, then?”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, I just thought you, it, was a pile of tra—” She stopped before it got any worse.

  “You don’t want ’em, then?”

  The little rubbish lady picked the paper off her head and sniffed it with relish.

  “It’s, it’s just the paper.”

  “Just the paper, she says. There’s good eating on there.” She held the crumpled cone up between them. “Y’mind?”

  “Erm, no, no, all yours.”

  The cone vanished inside the little woman’s mouth before Emily had finished speaking. A dreadful chewing, slurping, and munching followed. It was impossible to look away. The little woman swallowed, burped, and rubbed her tummy.

  “Aaaaah! Grand. That’s the problem with the young today. Wasteful. You’ll be throwing away bodies next.” She grinned, showing a mouthful of sharp black teeth. “Good eatin’ on them, too.”

  “I have to be going. Right now,” said Emily.

  She took two paces back toward the mouth of the alley, then stopped. “Excuse me, but do you know how to get to Dunlivin?”

  “Ha! Easy, you just need to be rilly rich and rilly dead.” The black teeth reappeared as she cackled.

  “Great, thanks.” Emily turned to walk away.

  “Nah, luv. Just joking. S’on the river, in Chiswick, ain’t it? You wants to get a wherry-boat down from Wapping wharf.”

  “Brilliant! Thank you!” Emily was already jogging down the road.

  “Wait, hang on, you’re not going there are ya? They’re a right bad lot.”

  The little woman shook her head as Emily disappeared around the corner.

  “Waste of a perfectly good body, that.”

  The wharf was mayhem. Denizens of all types milled around it, and the river beyond was busier than Emily had ever seen it back in her London. The water was hidden under an armada of different size boats, ships, and the occasional giant squid. Oars splashed, smoke poured from chimneys, and the water foamed as everything ploughed through with no regard for anyone else. It was pure watery chaos and she needed a way to travel down it.

  There were a number of boats drawn up along the wharf, with signs and owners touting for trade. She rejected the ones that were too piratical or too hungry-looking and settled on a taxi-boat at the end of the row. It was three times the size of a rowing boat, with a small cabin at one end and a honking big steam engine and paddle wheel at the other. The captain was mainly a beard that filled the gap between a heavy oilskin coat and a battered stovepipe hat. He didn’t appear to speak. He nodded when she asked for Chiswick, and then his whole beard twitched when she asked to be dropped near Dunlivin. She was sure he was going to refuse, but he motioned her aboard and pointed to the cabin. She pulled out the smallest of the notes she still had in her pocket, and he pressed a handful of warm, grubby coins back as change.

  The ride was hair raising. The captain and his marine colleagues didn’t care about anybody else on the river. The steam-powered boats roared past, and sometimes into, the unpowered boats; the little steam boats were at risk from the bigger paddle steamers that were the size of angry whales; and even the biggest steamers avoided the giant squid. In between all these were fins, tentacles, and the occasional leering merman, all black eyes and needle teeth. It was enough to put you off swimming ever again. She sat, teeth gritted, as the beard, which now had a large pipe jammed in it, tore down the river. The boat’s chimney poured out smoke and smuts of ash into the night air, and she was glad the wind was going the other way.

  As she sat and stared out at the banks rolling past, she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. Walking across the deck was a little girl in a nightie, clutching a furry penguin toy. Emily would have sworn she was the only passenger, though. Had the girl come from the engine room? She seemed unbothered by the splashing, the breeze, or the surrounding monsters, and pirouetted across the deck with her penguin in her own world. But it wasn’t her own world; as she got closer, Emily could see straight through her. The girl was a … what had the angry potato man said? She was a dreamling. The pirouetting took her too close to the side, and Emily leapt up to grab her, but as she did, the girl was gone. Not into the water but just … gone. Emily sagged back into her seat, and turned to look at the captain. The beard slowly shook from side to side, then turned back to the wheel.

  What were the dreamlings? Why were they here? Had she had dreams like that when she was little? She couldn’t remember any. She decided to worry about it on a day when she wasn’t heading into the jaws of certain doom instead.

  An hour later they nosed in toward the bank and pulled up at a huge stone jetty. They only rammed two smaller boats, and knocked a fisherman screaming headfirst into the water, in the process. She breathed a sigh of relief and began to gather herself. The captain leaned back from the wheel, and the beard spoke for the first time.

  “You sure this is where you wants to be, missy? They’se a rum lot, the Stabville-Chests, I hear, even for the Hungry Dead.” He paused and spat into the water. “Dun’t seem right you going in all on your lonesome. Pardon me saying.”

  Emily smiled at the unexpected concern.

  “Thank you. I … well, I have to, that’s all.” The beard bristled with worry and she wanted to reassure him. “I’ve got a hedgehog, though.”

  The beard bristled less.

  “Well, that’s summat at least. You go careful now.”

  The last she saw of him was a raised hand from his perch at
the tiller, and a puff of black smoke as the engine clattered back into life and hissed and huffed the boat back into the current and straight over a small canoe. The little act of kindness from a man who didn’t speak much made her tummy twist as it brought her dad vividly to mind. Her dad, who was quiet, too; her dad, who had always been there for her; her dad, who might not be boring after all. She wanted to sit in happy silence with him; she’d even have let him fuzzle her hair if he was there. But he wasn’t, he was prisoner of some awful witch-thing, so she screwed her courage up and turned to face Dunlivin.

  At the back of the jetty was a huge stone arch, supported on thick, fluted pillars, all carved from black granite. There was a great stone crest at the top of the arch, the same as on the letter, all pointy teeth and twirly bits. She steeled herself and walked through it, up some steps, and came out into a garden. There was a spread of manicured lawns and trees intersected with paths and statues and dotted with squared-off stones sticking up everywhere. It was a huge graveyard, she realized, with tombs scattered throughout, some as big as houses, with marbled angels on every corner. Wild horses wouldn’t have dragged her into this type of place after dark at home, but it was peaceful after the rest of her endless, dreadful night.

  The grounds started to change as she got closer to the top of a small hill. The graves stopped, and the green open space grew more decorative. The stone chips on the path changed to pure, glinting black, as did the color of all the flowers in the borders. The statuary on the corners and in the shrubberies grew bigger and more imposing—great fanged warriors battling angels or looming over innocents, all portrayed in black basalt stone. The whole place became monochrome, with the ever-present moonlight leaching any color from the grass and making the black elements of the garden glow.

  She came to a huge expanse of grass with more black statues scattered across it. Hang on, they looked like … one of them put its head up and glared at her, making Emily jump straight up in the air with a squeak.

  It was a flipping rhino. A herd of black rhino. Casually on the lawn. Black rhino, black flowers, black, well … everything.

  “You know what, Hoggins? I’m detecting a theme.”

  In the shock of the rhino, she’d missed the building behind them. It loomed, a mix between tomb and mansion. It had high arched church windows, a statue-lined path leading up to it, and a giant front door. There was no doubt this was her destination. Great. Not even slightly ominous.

  The statues glared down at her as she approached, all knife-edge cheekbones and sharp fangs. In fact, they all resembled the Dracula lookalike the very naughty horse had flattened earlier. Had that been today? It was impossible to tell in this timeless place. It seemed a lifetime ago already. Names and dates were etched underneath the statues, but most were too faded to be legible. Which was presumably to let you know just how much more Dead they were than you.

  The loud scrunch of gravel under her feet was unbearable by the time she’d reached the door. She was just about to yank the dangling iron bell-pull when the door screeched open. She shrieked and stumbled. A tall, thin man with a gaunt, sallow face, in a black jacket with tails, leaned out of the shadows within. He resembled a sour-faced daddy long-legs in a suit. He was about to speak when he was cut off by an outraged shout.

  “You totally did that on purpose!” Emily yelled.

  “Ma’am?” His voice creaked the same as the door had.

  “You waited until I was about to ring the bell, then you jumped out at me! I bet you always do it.” Emily loved an argument. As she ranted, the sense of dread that had been crawling up her back scuttled off to bother someone else.

  “I assure you, ma’am—”

  “Where’s your little spyhole, then? Do you peer through and wait, or do you listen out for the gravel to crunch? I bet it’s the gravel.”

  He might have been spooky, dead, and two hundred years old, but he’d never been shouted at by the gob before. She stepped forward, forcing him back over the threshold, wagging her finger in his face, and was in the hall before he regained his composure.

  “I assure you, ma’am, it is simply a coincidence.”

  “My butt it is. I bet you keep score.”

  “Ahem. If ma’am would care to state her business?”

  “Ma’am would care. I’m here to see …” Who was she here to see? The Nocturne, right, but was that her real name? What if it was actually, like, Nicky or something?

  “Yesssss?” He steepled his fingers and arched an eyebrow.

  “You know very well who I’m here to see. Jog on and get her.”

  She couldn’t believe it had come out of her mouth. The butler widened his eyes, then inclined his head.

  “Walk this way.”

  He turned and strode off without looking back to see if she was following. Emily bustled along behind his bandy, erratic stride, unable to hide a grin. She’d stood up to the butler by pretending to be braver than she was. Perhaps that was how bravery worked? If she just kept that up …

  She nearly walked into his bony back as he stopped and opened a great black door in the wood-paneled hall they were in.

  “If you’d wait in here please, ma’am? I shall fetch the Great Lady, and his lordship.”

  He ushered her in and was gone in a whirl of coattails and scrawny legs. The room was large and stark, dominated by an acre of empty wooden floor, one wall of tall windows looking out onto the rhino-filled grass outside, and a number of huge candle-filled chandeliers. Was it a ballroom? At the far end of the room were a chaise longue and a few other velvet chairs, drawn up next to a fireplace. Next to them was a wind-up gramophone with a giant horn, and a slew of old vinyl records around it, most out of their covers. She wandered over, drawn by their lurid colors. Who were the Bay City Rollers, or Ziggy Stardust? These people all had serious haircut issues. Who the heck was Thin Lizzy or The Clash? That one rang a bell; had her mom listened to them? They definitely weren’t from 1859, anyway. Odd. Where had they come from?

  There was a constant, low swirl of music, coming from nowhere Emily could put her finger on. Was she hearing things? She pressed her hands over her ears but it was still there. She sat down, got up again, chucked her bag on the chaise longue, hovered for a minute, then walked to the window instead. Rhino really were honkingly big. Emily tangled her fingers in the necklace of bad pennies under her shirt and jingled them as she waited. She put her other hand in her jacket pocket and the warm weight of the Hog shuffled into it. She pulled him out and brought him up to eye level.

  “Hog, I’ve got to say, I’m pretty much wetting my pants here. I hope I’m doing the right thing.”

  He was, ever so slowly but very definitely, shaking his head from one side to the other.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she hissed. She’d have questioned him further but voices and footsteps were coming toward the door now. The haunting background music grew louder.

  “Thanks a lot, Hoggins,” she muttered, tucking him away in her pocket and turning to face the door.

  It opened and the enormous bulk of the Bear filled the whole doorway.

  “Girl,” he growled, through a mouth sprouting more teeth as he talked. “No horse this time. MINE!”

  He loomed in the doorway and raised his huge, claw-tipped paws. Emily was certain she was going to be ripped to shreds, then a new voice cut through the Bear’s ripsaw growling.

  “Now, now, Ursus. That’s enough.” The Voice sounded beautiful, perfect even. Although the words had been spoken, not sung, it was melodic, sweet and fluting, and fell like music on the ear. Despite her terror, Emily wanted it to speak again.

  “She is here by my invitation, so under the Ancient Law that binds us all, she is offered safe conduct.”

  It sounded even more beautiful this time. Emily was seized by a warm rush of affection for the owner of the Voice that was saving her. The owner was undoubtedly gracious and beautiful and good. Emily straightened up, unafraid. As she did the Bear lowered his killing p
aws and stepped back, his shaggy head bowed.

  “Beg pardon,” he mumbled.

  “I should think so, too. We will resolve all this without such old-fashioned brutality. Let us talk as civilized people.”

  “Quite so, old chap.” Another speaker now, with tones far less beautiful. They sounded braying and harsh in comparison. When would the Voice speak again?

  The Bear shuffled away, contrite. As he did, the other people behind him came into view. First was the flattened vampire, still draped in his Transylvanian, opera-cape finest. He was a lot less flat now, but there were bumps and scratches visible on his pale skin. His flowing blond hair had been primped and arranged to cover a hoof-print on his temple. It wasn’t him Emily was interested in, though, it was the owner of the Voice.

  When she appeared, she was just as Emily had imagined. A perfect beauty, but kind, not austere. She was tall, with long, sweeping black hair, with a distinct thick streak of gray through it on either side, pinned back from her high forehead with silver combs. Her skin was pale and delicate, and her eyes a midnight blue. A graceful neck plunged into a dress the color of her eyes, which flared out into a billowing trail of pearls. She looked like the sea, and sounded like the wind, and Emily was entranced.

  She took graceful steps toward Emily, who stood rapt in the corner. The lady spoke only one word, “Come,” but it was enough to fill her up with its honeyed warmth. They sat by the fire, opposite each other, and the lady smiled and Emily smiled back, happy to be where she was.

  “Now,” said the Voice, and it was still beautiful, but not overwhelming with its glory, and Emily leaned forward to listen.

  “Introductions. You, I know, are Emily, and I am very pleased to meet you at last.”

  Emily glowed with pleasure at that.

  “I have lots of names,” said the lady, and wrinkled her nose as if to show they were a burden. How awful for her. Poor thing, with all those names.