Anthony Horowitz - Raven_s Gate

“Stay in the circle,” Sir Michael repeated. “The doors are locked. They can’t escape.”

Beneath the floor the gigantic creature punched and punched again at the invisible barrier. But it couldn’t break through. It had ritual. It had fire. But the blood of the child had been denied it, and it didn’t have the strength.

And that was when Sir Michael noticed the knife. The tip had penetrated Matt’s shirt and skin. Matt’s power had stopped it, but not before it had drawn blood. There was a single red drop at the very tip of the blade. Sir Michael’s eyes widened. With a cry of pleasure he leapt forward and snatched up the knife. The blood was still wet. It glistened beneath the arc lamps.

Sir Michael laughed and brought the knife crashing down towards the gate.

The power was surging through Matt and nothing could stand in its way. Locked doors were torn from their hinges as if struck by a tornado. Steel plates bent and crumpled as he approached. Omega One was a labyrinth but he seemed to know exactly where he was going. Down a flight of metal stairs, along a corridor, through an archway and on towards a set of automatic doors that hissed open as he approached. It was as if he had worked here all his life.

Richard was close behind him. The journalist no longer knew where they were going but he could tell that their general direction was down. Already they had to be well below ground level. The warning sirens were still sounding all around them, and lights flashed red and white at every corner. Steam hissed out of pipes. Water cascaded down from the sprinkler system. The whole power station seemed to be trembling, on the verge of breaking up, and he was worried that they were going to trap themselves. There couldn’t be an exit under the ground. But he knew that this was no time to argue. He kept his mouth shut, following Matt in grim silence.

They passed through a room stacked from floor to ceiling with banks of machinery, then down another corridor. A door at the end flew open, beckoning them on.

It led to a metal gantry above a tank of water. But it was like no water that Richard had ever seen. Pausing to catch his breath, he leant over it. The water was blue – a fluorescent, unnatural blue – and it was crystal clear, without so much as a speck of dust on the surface. The tank was square and about three metres deep. At the bottom was a row of metal containers, each one stamped with a series of numbers. Half of them were empty. Half contained twisted bars of metal, packed tightly together.

Richard knew what he was looking at. This was where the radioactive waste from the reactor was stored to cool. It wasn’t water in the pool, but acid. The boxes beneath the surface contained the deadliest substance in the world. With a shiver he stepped back. Matt was waiting for him, his face set with a strange determination. It was hard to tell if he was asleep or awake.

“OK. I’m coming,” Richard said.

The blow took Richard completely unawares, crashing into the back of his head. If he hadn’t been moving forward, it might have broken his neck. He fell to his knees. A woman brushed past him and stepped on to the middle of the gantry, facing Matt. It was Mrs Deverill. Richard tried to get to his feet but he was barely conscious. All the strength had drained away from him. He could only kneel there, helpless, as Mrs Deverill walked towards Matt, an iron bar clasped in her hands.

“He didn’t listen to me,” she spat. Her face was distorted by fury, her eyes livid, her mouth an inhuman grimace. “We should have locked you up, starved you, kept you weak. But it’s over now, isn’t it? The power’s gone. You don’t know how to control it. Now I can kill you and take you back.”

She raised the iron bar. Matt looked around him. He had nowhere to run. On one side there was a wall. On the other, a low railing to stop him falling into the tank of acid. The gantry was only two metres across. Mrs Deverill was standing between him and Richard. Even if he could have run away, it would mean leaving his friend at her mercy and he couldn’t do that. He had no choice. He would have to fight.

She swung the bar through the air. As quick as a panther, Matt leapt aside, then lurched back as Mrs Deverill thrust the pointed end at his stomach. She was moving incredibly quickly for a woman of her age but her fury had lent her strength. Matt fell against the railings as she threw herself at him. There was nothing he could do. She was taller than him. She was armed. And she was quite mad. Grunting with anger and exertion, she pressed the bar against his chest, pinning him against the side with such force that Matt thought she would crack his ribs.

He wished he could use his powers against her, but she had been right about that too. The power was no longer there. He had exhausted himself getting this far. There was a faulty switch inside him and now it had turned itself off. He was an ordinary boy again. And she was beating him.

Mrs Deverill lifted the bar so that it slid over his chest and under his throat. Now she was using it to crush his windpipe. Her pinched face, with its jagged cheekbones, was very close to his. Her eyes were burning with hatred and indignation. Matt felt the floor slipping away beneath his feet. He was being forced over backwards. The railing pressed into his spine and his neck bent back until he could see the pool behind him, upside down. With a gasp he brought his knee up, crashing it into the woman’s stomach. Mrs Deverill screeched and stepped back. Matt twisted to one side.

The bar slammed down again. Matt ducked. A rush of air swept past his cheek as the bar smashed into the railing. Sparks flew up. Then he jumped behind her, trying to take her by surprise. But she had been expecting the move. She lashed out with one foot, tripping him up. Then he was on his back, staring up as Mrs Deverill raised the bar with both hands. She was going to use it like a spear, crashing it down into his chest.

“You’re still mine!” she gasped. “I’ll have your blood. I’ll tear out your heart and take it back with me.”

Her fingers tightened. She took a breath.

And then she pitched forward, crying out. The iron bar missed. Matt looked past her and saw that Richard had recovered enough to make one last effort. With all his strength he had pushed her from behind. Jayne Deverill had lost her balance. For a moment she tottered, then with a shriek she fell over the railing and toppled into the tank.

She sank like a stone, plunging into one of the crates. With bubbles erupting from her mouth, she tried to reach the surface. But it was already too late. The acid was eating into her. Richard peered down and saw that already much of her face had gone.

“Don’t look, Matt,” he warned.

Mrs Deverill was no longer recognizable. Her flesh was peeling away and her hair had come out. Richard closed his eyes. Witches had been burned in the Middle Ages, he knew, but it could never have been as ghastly as this.

Matt stumbled to his feet. “This way…” he said, quietly.

There was a door at the end of the gantry and another flight of steps going ever further down. The walls were suddenly different. Instead of the paint and smooth plaster of the upper corridors, these walls were cut out of solid rock and were covered with patches of damp moss. The iron steps were rusty, descending into darkness. Richard could hear the sound of rushing water. The underground river!

The steps ended at a small, triangular platform. Just below them, the black river swept through miles of underground caverns, beneath the woods. The cave system was like an underground pipe, filled almost to the roof with freezing water. There were no banks or towpath to walk on. There was no other way out.

“Hold on to me,” Richard said. Matt hooked his arms around the journalist. “Just hold on.”