Anthony Horowitz - Raven_s Gate

There was nothing Matt could try. Every last ounce of his strength had deserted him.

“We’ll be there very soon. It won’t take long. And you needn’t be concerned. It will all be over very quickly and it won’t hurt as much as you think.”

The car left the road. The wheels bumped over a muddy, stony track. They plunged into the pine forest. Ahead of them the lights of Omega One shimmered in the rain. Matthew tried to throw himself at Sir Michael Marsh but the old man easily pushed him back.

They reached the gates of the power station and stopped. The night was suddenly cut apart by an immense guillotine blade of lightning. The villagers were there, with Mrs Deverill standing in front of them, Asmodeus curled around her leg. They were all waiting for him.

“No!” Matt shouted, the single word echoing all around.

Sir Michael got out of the car. “Take him!” he ordered.

The door was pulled open. Grey, dripping hands reached in and clamped down on him. Matt lashed out but it was too late. He was dragged out of the car and lifted into the air. A huge spotlight cut through the rain, blinding him. There was a crowd of people… the entire village. This was the moment they had been waiting for and now they had him.

Squirming and shouting, Matt was carried above their shoulders and into the heart of Omega One.

It was like being in a nightmarish technological circus.

The reactor chamber was a great circle with silver walls and a domed ceiling at least thirty metres high. Instead of sawdust, the floor was covered with black and white squares, and the roof was made of steel rather than canvas, with red and blue gantries criss-crossing high above the ground. There was an observation window in front of what must have been a control room and a wide balcony that ran the whole way round. Seating for an audience?

Across the centre of the chamber two railway tracks ran parallel with each other and there was a massive tower – all platforms, railings, ladders and dials – mounted on wheels so that it could move backwards and forwards. The tower dominated the chamber. For the moment, it was still. A single wide corridor led out of the ring. If it had been a circus, this would have been the path along which the animals and the clown’s cars would have entered.

The arena was lit by brilliant floodlights attached to brackets. Everything was spotlessly clean and even the air had a metallic, sterile taste to it as hidden ventilators filtered it with a constant hum.

This was the heart of Omega One. Matt knew that under the floor, protected by ten metres of reinforced concrete and steel, a dragon lay sleeping. Its every breath trembled with pent-up anger. When it awoke, its roar would have the force of an exploding sun. Such was the power contained in the fragile cage of the nuclear reactor.

Watched by the silent villagers, Matt examined his surroundings. For all its technology, the power station was not so different from any modern factory. What made it so fantastic was that, in stark contrast to the machinery, it had been filled with the trappings of an almost forgotten age. The twenty-first century forced into an unholy marriage with the Dark Ages. Inside the nuclear power station the ground had been prepared for a witches’ sabbath – for the celebration of black mass.

Despite the electric lights, the chamber was decorated with thousands of flickering candles, all of them black, their wicks spluttering. Smoke twisted up and was whisked away into the ventilation system. The candles surrounded a circle that had been painted on the chessboard floor with a series of words, written in capital letters, going all the way round. HEL + HELOYM + SOTHER… They were foreign words that meant nothing to Matt and he gave up trying to read them. Inside the circle there were various symbols – arrows, eyes, five-pointed stars and spirals – that could have been the doodles of some demented child, except that they had been marked out in gold paint, seemingly with care.

His eyes were drawn to a slab of black marble in the very centre of the circle. The stone was the size of a coffin, with a single design engraved in gold at the foot:

A wooden cross hung from above. But it was upside down. Directly beneath it, on the stone, lay a knife, its blade a twisted tongue of dull silver, its handle fashioned from the horn of a goat.

Matt shuddered. He knew what all the preparations were for. This was where his life was meant to end. The knife was for him.

The villagers closed in around him. More of them looked down on him from the window of the observation box. Mrs Deverill and her sister were standing next to each other. Matt recognized the butcher, the chemist, the woman with the pram… Even the children had joined in the ring, their faces pale, their eyes hungry. Nobody spoke. Nor did they force him on to the slab. They knew he had no choice but to surrender. He had given them a run for their money. But he had lost and now it was time to pay.

“Matt…”

Somebody had called out to him. Matt looked past the villagers and saw a man standing outside the circle, his hands tied behind him to a metal railing. Matt ran over to him, everything else forgotten for a moment. It was the last thing he had expected. Richard Cole was still alive. His clothes were ragged, his face smeared with blood. He was helpless, a prisoner. But somehow he had survived the destruction of the museum and had been brought here too.

“Tell me I’m dreaming,” Richard gasped as Matt reached him.

“I’m afraid not,” Matt said. He was so surprised, he didn’t know what to say. “I thought you were dead.”

“Not quite.” Richard managed a ghost of a smile. “It looks like Sir Michael Marsh is part of all this.”

“I know. He brought me here.”

“Never trust anyone who works for the government.” Then Richard leant forward and whispered, “My left hand is almost free. Hang in there!” And Matt felt a surge of hope.

“So here we all are together!” The voice came from the one open door. The villagers turned towards Sir Michael Marsh as he entered the arena. “Shall we take our places? The end of the world is about to begin.”

Two of the villagers had crept up behind Matt, and before he could react they had pulled him away. He struggled, but it was hopeless. The two men were huge and handled him as if he were a sack of potatoes. They dragged him over to the sacrificial slab, threw him on to his back and tied thick leather bands around his wrists and ankles. When they stepped back, he couldn’t move. So this was where it ended. This was what it had all been for.

Richard was shouting. “Leave him alone! Why hurt him? He’s just a kid. Let him go…”

Sir Michael held up a hand for silence. “Matthew is not ‘just a kid’,” he replied. “He is a very special child. A child we have been watching for almost half his life.”

Mrs Deverill pushed her way forward. She was dressed in the same clothes she had worn in London, together with the lizard brooch, her eyes filled with hatred. “I want to be the one who cuts his throat,” she rasped.

“You will do as you’re told,” Sir Michael replied. “I have to say, Jayne, you’ve disappointed me. You very nearly let him get away. A second time!”

“We should have locked him up from the start!”

“You’re the ones who should be locked up,” Richard cried. “You’re all mad…”

“We’re not mad.” Sir Michael turned to him. “You know nothing. You live in your own cosy, mediocre world. You’re completely blind to the greater things that are happening around you, like so many of your kind. But that will all change.

“I have dedicated my entire life to this moment. The preparations alone have taken more than twenty years, working night and day. Did Professor Dravid tell you about us? Did he tell you about the Old Ones?” Sir Michael paused but Richard said nothing. “I will assume that he did, and you probably thought that he was mad too.