TWENTY-EIGHT THE CHURCH
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE CHURCH
T he thick canopy of trees swallows up the moonlight as we enter the graveyard to the east of Craythorn Forest. My steps feel heavy and we push through the overgrown grass.
A distant hoot of an owl breaks the silence.
Tariq and I huddle low behind a worn gravestone, peeking over its edge, glued to the church looming ahead.
Inside, beyond the stained-glass windows, there’s movement, a flickering orange glow.
The main doors of the church look shut.
I can’t shake the feeling that every moment counts right now. We could be walking into a trap. My heart races, but curiosity gets the better of me, and just as I attempt to go, Tariq pulls me back to the ground.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ he says, restraining my arm.
‘Getting a closer look.’
‘And you think walking right up to the front doors like the bloody postman is the best way to do that?’
‘You want to find Opel, don’t you?’
His grip tightens, and he softly jabs my abdomen, causing me to tense up and my stitches to restrict.
I stifle a pained noise.
He repeats the jab, and I drop to my knees. ‘What the fuck?’
‘The first one was to remind you that you’re not far from a fresh stab wound.’
‘And the second?’
‘I just wanted to see you pull that face again,’ he says, then grins. ‘I said follow my lead, remember?’
I nod. As much as it annoys me, he’s right.
‘Come on,’ he says.
He skulks off, keeping low around the headstones as he moves toward the side of the church. I quickly follow.
‘Through here,’ Tariq says.
I step out from behind a tree, just in time to see Tariq descend swiftly through a broken window at the rear of the church. Luckily, the window is low enough for me to slip through without much effort.
The room we’ve dropped into is cramped. In fact, ‘room’ might be a stretch. It’s more a closet. The air is heavy with a musty dampness.
Tariq steps aside to make space for me, but knocks into some sort of painting balanced on a lectern. I catch it before it crashes to the floor. We exchange a glance, frozen on the spot, listening intently for any signs of life on the other side of the door. All remains quiet.
‘Nice reflexes,’ he whispers.
A rush of wings fills the air as two pigeons burst around the room. I jump, and attempt to suppress a squeal by covering my mouth with my hand. The birds dart about in a chaotic frenzy before finding their way back out through the window.
Tariq has a hand up ready to fight. ‘They were almost fried,’ Tariq says, his breathing heavy.
He moves toward the door.
My phone begins vibrating in my pocket. I pull it out, the screen illuminating the room around us.
‘It’s Lily,’ I say.
‘Now is really not the time,’ Tariq says.
I swipe the call away and quickly shoot off a message to say I am busy with Tariq, which isn’t exactly a lie. I turn off my phone.
Tariq opens the door, revealing a narrow corridor. I’m suddenly hit with waves of tuneful notes. Music is playing, somewhere.
‘Do you hear that?’ I whisper.
Tariq shakes his head.
I follow his footsteps closely. We tread softly down the hallway, taking a turn into another passage. We carefully make our way through two more sets of doors.
The music is louder now, and I can tell by Tariq’s curious expression that he can hear it too.
As we reach the end of another corridor, Tariq motions to halt. There’s a dilapidated nave ahead, its vast expanse stretching out before us.
The music is coming from an organ, but now that we’re closer, it doesn’t sound right. Half of it looks crumpled and battered, with scorch marks up the metal shafts.
At the base of the organ sits a figure I instantly recognise. Draven.
Tariq and I stop behind a pillar to get a better view.
‘Look,’ Tariq says, nodding toward the altar. Opel lies sprawled across it, her eyes closed. From where we are, I can’t tell if she’s unconscious or worse.
She’s not alone. Surrounding her are a group of Dark Friars, all of whom seem to be in discussion with one person. I adjust my position to get a better look.
It’s Layla. My old history teacher is dressed in her ceremonial robes, but her face looks different. She’s covered in some sort of distorted spider-webbed tattoo. I guess it must be part of the ritual.
‘What’s the plan?’ I say.
‘We need to get Opel out of here, but I can’t see a way of doing that without a fight,’ Tariq says, looking around us. ‘We could wait for them to leave. Or I can cause some sort of distraction and…’
Tariq has realised it too. The music has stopped. The church is quiet.
I peer around the pillar. Draven is no longer at the organ.
‘When you’ve lived as long as I have’ – Draven’s voice echoes around the church – ‘you begin to develop a sixth sense.’
Tariq places a finger to his lips. He mouths, ‘Stay here.’
‘Show yourself, Keepers!’ It’s Layla’s voice booming now.
Tariq moves from behind the pillar and into the open.
‘It’s just me,’ Tariq says.
‘Mr Ashar. Welcome,’ Draven says. ‘And where is the Auctus?’
My heartbeat quickens. Tariq asked me to stay, but what’s the point? They already know we’re here.
‘I’m right here,’ I say, joining Tariq at his side.
Tariq glares at me.
‘You’re both right on time,’ Draven says.
‘I’ve been working on my punctuality, haven’t I, Miss Williams?’ I say.
Layla ignores me and turns to Draven. ‘I still think this is ridiculous, bringing the Keepers here.’
‘Shouldn’t you be on your way?’ says Draven.
‘And what about the Keepers?’ says Layla.
‘The Keepers won’t follow you,’ Draven says, raising his voice to make sure we can hear him. ‘They’re here for the Motus. And soon, we’ll be the least of their concerns.’
He produces something from inside his coat and lets it drop from his fingers. A stone on a chain. It’s Opel’s pendant.
I share a glance with Tariq, but his eyes are on Opel lying on the stone altar.
‘Don’t worry,’ Draven says. ‘Aside from a blow to the head, she’s otherwise unharmed. For now, anyway.’
Opel’s chest rises and falls rhythmically, a reassuring sign of life. Draven swings her pendant around his hand.
Tariq fidgets. He looks ready to sprint at any moment.
‘You need to get out of here,’ he whispers to me.
‘I’m not leaving you here,’ I say.
Draven sniggers. ‘How touching.’
With a wave, Draven signals for Layla to leave. She motions for the Dark Friars to follow her. Her eyes meet mine. There’s an emptiness in her gaze, such a difference to the history teacher she once was to me. She and the Dark Friars exit the church, and the large wooden doors close behind them.
Tariq moves for Opel, and I follow. Draven approaches us from the other side of the altar.
‘I had almost forgotten how strong-willed she can be. She put up a fight, I’ll give her that. Unfortunately for her, that spirit won’t save her from the overwhelming forces waiting outside in the shadows.’
But at the moment, the dark corners of the church are still, despite the distant sounds of the Wretches.
‘Give me the pendant,’ Tariq demands, a sharp edge to his voice.
‘No,’ Draven replies, placing the pendant back in his inner pocket.
Tariq ignites a flame in his palm. It grows rapidly, casting bigger shadows than the nearby candles can match.
‘I said, hand it over,’ says Tariq.
‘Take your best shot,’ Draven says, his arms open.
He’s taunting him. Draven knows our powers are useless on him.
‘I’d put it away if I were you. Remember what happened when fire consumed this place last time? Thomas paid the price that night.’
Tariq launches the fireball in Draven’s direction. The flames consume him, and he vanishes. There’s nothing except fire.
Once it dissipates, Draven is gone.
Seconds go by.
I’m not quick enough. Draven is at Tariq’s side; Tariq’s collar is grasped in his hand.
‘Control your temper, young man,’ says Draven.
He throws Tariq aside, sending him sprawling across the stone floor and into a broken pew. He lies still.
‘Tariq!’ I shout.
Draven steps toward me and I ready myself for a fight.
‘Save your energy, Auctus,’ says Draven, striding around me toward the exit. ‘You’re going to need it.’
‘The Guild know what you’re doing, Draven, it’s over,’ I say.
‘In case you haven’t already realised, the Guild are sincerely stupid. I doubt they know anything,’ he says, still walking toward the doors.
‘Really? So, you aren’t trying to summon the demon Alastor from the Crossing?’
Draven stops in his tracks, turning back to face me.
‘My, my, we have been busy,’ Draven says, his voice now harsh. ‘And where did you learn this?’
‘Katie Ford,’ I say, smiling.
Draven considers me for a moment. ‘But how… ah, Miss Willet. Of course. She put you in touch with your predecessor. Impressive. I should have foreseen that. It’s no matter, because there is nothing the Guild, nor you Keepers, can do now. Alastor will rise tonight.’
‘I won’t let that happen,’ I say. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’
Draven sneers. ‘Layla and the rest of the Dark Friars are gathering at the Crossing as we speak. She has been selected to perform the ritual. If I can’t make it, so be it.’
Draven pulls a blade from the inside of his trench coat and marches toward me. I block his first swipe, then his second. He lunges forward. I find an opening and strike him across the face.
Draven staggers, but appears mostly unfazed.
‘Liam, he’s immune to your abilities, just like mine,’ Tariq calls out from behind me.
Draven thrusts outward with the blade and I narrowly dodge it.
If my strength is useless against him, I’ll rely on my speed for the advantage.
‘How’s that injury of yours?’ Draven says, eyeing my abdomen.
My gaze flickers down for an instant, and Draven seizes the opportunity. He leaps, but I react swiftly, narrowly avoiding his slash of the blade. I evade three more strikes as Draven roars with frustration.
Tariq intercepts me during my next dodge, pulling me behind him, acting as a shield. His grip on my arm is firm, not letting go.