Catherine Fisher: Obsidian Mirror

Then the room was quiet. Jake looked up. The Head was looking at him with a calm curiosity, and when he spoke again his voice was different, as if he meant it now.

“Have we failed you so badly, Jake? Is it so absolutely terrible to be here?”

Jake preferred the riot act. He shrugged. “It’s nothing personal. Any school—it would have been the same.”

“I suppose that should make me happier. It doesn’t. And what will your guardian have to say?”

Jake’s face hardened. “No idea. I’ve never spoken to him.”

The men were silent. Wharton said, “Surely in the holidays you go home….”

“Mr. Venn is very generous.” Jake’s contempt was icy. “He pays for a very nice hotel in Cannes, where I spend the holidays. Every holiday. Alone.”

Wharton frowned. Surely the boy’s mother was alive? This seemed an odd situation. Was it behind this bizarre behavior? He caught Jake’s eye. Jake stared icily back. The old Don’t ask me any more questions stare.

“Well, it’s about time we informed Mr. Venn all that’s about to change.” The Head turned to his computer.

“Headmaster?” Wharton edged in his chair. “Maybe…even now, if Jake…”

Jake’s gaze didn’t waver. “No. I want to go. If you make me stay I’ll end up killing someone.”

Wharton shut his mouth. The boy was mad.

“Let’s hope he’s online.” The Head typed a rapid e-mail. “Though I suppose your guardian has a big staff to run his estate while he’s off exploring the Antarctic or whatever?”

“He doesn’t do expeditions anymore. He’s a recluse.”

The Head was busy, so Wharton said, “Recluse?”

“He doesn’t leave home. Wintercombe Abbey.”

“I know what recluse means.” Wharton felt hot. The boy was such an annoying little…But he kept his temper. “Since when?”

“Since his wife died.” The words were hard and cold, and Wharton was chilled by Jake’s lack of the least sympathy. Something was very wrong here. He’d read about the famous Oberon Venn—polar explorer, mountaineer, archaeologist, the only man to have come back alive from the terrible ascent of the west face of Katra Simba. A heroic figure. Someone young men should look up to. But maybe not the best person to be suddenly landed with someone else’s child.

“Your father knew him?”

Jake was silent, as if he resented the question. “My father was his best friend.”

Far off, a bell rang. Footsteps clattered down the corridor outside. The Head said, “He seems a man of few words. Here’s his answer.”

He turned the screen so that Wharton and Jake could read it. It said:

SEND HIM HERE. I’LL DEAL WITH THIS.

Wharton felt as if an arctic wind had blown out of the screen. He almost stepped back.

Jake didn’t flinch. “I’ll leave tomorrow. Thank you for all—”

“You’ll leave when I say.” The Head clicked off the screen and looked at him over it. “Can’t you tell us what this is all about, Jake? You’re a promising student…maybe even the brightest boy in the place. Do you really want to rot in some English comp?”

Jake set his face with the icy glitter Wharton loathed. “I told you. It’s not about the school. It’s about me.” He glared at the screen. “Me and him.”

The Head leaned back in his chair. As if he could see it was hopeless, he shrugged slightly. “Have it your way. I’ll arrange a flight. Go and pack your things.”

“They’ve been packed for days.”

The Head glanced at Wharton. “And you can pack yours, George.”

“Me? But…”

“Someone has to take him home. Have a few days off for Christmas while you’re there.”

“I can take myself,” Jake snapped.

“And I have a ton of work to do, Headmaster. The play…”

“Can wait. In loco parentis, I’m afraid.”

They both stared at him, and the Head grinned his dark grin. “I don’t know which of you looks the most horrified. Bon voyage, gentlemen. And good luck, Mr. Wilde.”

Outside in the corridor, Wharton blew out his cheeks and gazed desperately up toward the staff room. Then he looked at Jake and Jake looked at him.

“Better do as he says,” he said, gruff.

“I’m sorry.” The boy’s voice was still arrogant, but there was something new in it. “Sorry you’re dragged into this. But I have to go and get the truth out of Venn. To confront him with what I know.”

“And what do you know?” Wharton was baffled now.

The lunch bell rang. Jake Wilde turned and was jostled down the corridor as the boys poured along to the dining room in a noisy, hungry wave. In all the uproar Wharton almost missed his reply. The words were so quiet. So venomous. But for a moment, he was sure Jake had said, “I know he murdered my father.”

2

For this Abbey lies in deep countrie, a place of fey and wicked spirits, and the traveler there should be ware of the woods of that land, and the crossroads where the dead are buried…

Chronicle of Wintercombe

S ARAH SCREAMED.

She was halfway out of the world; her hand and arm through in some other cold, empty place, when the darkness leaped on her and bit her with a sudden savage pain.

She kicked and yelled. Not darkness. A lithe shape, a snow-white wolf with sapphire eyes; its teeth in her shoe, her heel, the agony unbearable. She fought, jerked the shoe off, tore away, and suddenly came free; the wolf snarled but she was already falling, falling out of the dark, arms wide, crash-landing abrupt and breathless on her back under a brilliant scarlet sky.

Sore, she lay still.

The ground was boggy. A black bramble spread its briars above her; she sat up and saw wide moorland, windblown and sparse, the dying sun sinking into heavy cloud.

It was bitterly cold.

Elation made her shout; she’d done it. But where were the others?

She stood, turned a complete circle. “Max? Carla?”

Over her head a great flock of small dark birds streamed croaking to a distant wood.

She drew a cloudy breath. Face it. No one else had made it.

The wolf’s muzzle exploded out of nowhere; before she knew it, it had her sleeve, tugging powerfully. Only its head existed here, materializing out of the air as if through a slant of glass. If they got her back it was over—there was no way they would let her live.

Her feet slid in mud. She yelled, a wordless cry, but only the birds heard. Icy saliva soaked her arm.

Sliding, she hit a broken branch. She snatched it up, swung it.

“Let me go!”

The wolf flinched under the blow, eyes burning with fury. For a second it wasn’t even there, and then she was free, running and stumbling over the tussocky, squelching bog.

Soaked, hair plastered to her face, she snatched a look back. The moorland seemed empty. But the sun had set; long shadows leaned from rock and tree.

Furious with herself, she limped faster. She had to get away. Because it would come after her and smell out her trail. And they’d send a Replicant with it.

The moor was so cold! Ice cracked on the surface, and her shoeless foot was wet through and bleeding. Her dress clung to her body and arms. And there was a ringing in her ears, as if after some huge, silent explosion.

She was shaking with shock, but she was here, she knew this place, and she knew there was a lane. It should be ahead somewhere—no more than a track. But when she crawled through a hedge and slithered down into its shelter she was surprised at the dark, smooth surface, hardly broken by weeds.

Ahead was a cottage. From one of the chimneys a circular white dish sprouted like a mushroom.

The door opened.

Sarah dived sideways, into plants that stung her.