Chapter 15
“Highgate Cemetery?” I remark in surprise. The grand West Entrance has just come into view as we stroll through Waterlow Park.
Grumps chuckles, leaning heavily on his walking stick with one hand, his other arm linked through mine.
“I thought you were taking me to some archives.”
“I am.”
“Grumps, this is a cemetery. One of the—if not the—most famous ones in London. There’s no archives here.”
“Ye of little faith,” he huffs as we approach the gate. A man stationed there watches the visitors pass into the grounds. When he sees Grumps and me, his eyes track over to me briefly, then he nods to Grumps and we walk right through.
“I thought you had to have a paid ticket to visit here?”
“Not us,” Grumps replies. “Now stop asking so many questions. I don’t want anyone overhearing. And try to look like a tourist.”
We wind our way through the place, and it’s fascinating.
I’ve never seen so many ornate and diverse graves and tombs.
I’d love to spend hours thoroughly exploring the catacombs and crypts, but Grumps has other plans.
It’s clear we’re not just meandering and that he has a definite destination in mind.
Eventually, when I’m just about to suggest we take a break so Grumps can rest, we come upon a small, square tomb sealed with a heavy-looking oak door and a wrought-iron gate over the top of that.
The heavy branches of a nearby tree hang over its roof, partially sheltering it, and thick vines of ivy cover nearly half of its facade.
“It’s a bit small for an archive,” I note dryly. The whole tomb can’t be more than ten by ten feet.
Grumps looks around to make sure no one is watching before producing a pair of heavy, old-fashioned keys. I watch as he unlocks the metal gate and wooden door, then he ushers me inside, closing and relocking the gate and door behind us so we are standing in a small, dark space.
Before I can say anything, Grumps flicks a switch, which fills the small room with dim light. As my eyes adjust, I’m surprised to find that this isn’t a tomb at all.
Directly in front of us, taking up most of the cramped space, is a lift. A very old, Victorian-style elevator car. Grumps strolls forward, opens the ornate ironwork gate, and shoos me inside.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” I ask dubiously, gripping the strap of my leather satchel as he follows me in and shuts the door.
“Yes, quite safe. Just don’t stick your fingers through the gaps in the gate.”
“Grumps, I’m not five.”
He chuckles. “I don’t know, you haven’t made the best decisions lately.”
“Wow, I can feel the judgement from here.”
He laughs again when the elevator jerks alive, and I instinctively grab the sides, my eyes widening. The car starts to descend with an alarming amount of clunking and grinding.
“Is this archive at the centre of the earth?” I ask, noting how long the descent is taking.
“So impatient, Harry,” he tuts, but his eyes dance with amusement. “Just wait. You won’t be disappointed, I guarantee it.”
We finally reach the bottom with a doom-laden thump, and Grumps folds back the gate with a clatter.
I step out of the elevator and only realise I’m gaping at the sight before me when Grumps uses the rounded pommel of his walking stick to gently push the bottom of my chin, forcing me to close my mouth.
“What the?—”
“Welcome to the library and archives of The Nox,” he introduces grandly. “It is, of course, a secret, so don’t tell anyone without express permission from Eli.”
“The Nox?”
“Also known as The Night Guild, established in 1868 by Elias Black.”
“Elias Black?” My gaze snaps to his. “I have a book of his. The Path of the Witch.”
“Do you?” Grumps’ lips twitch with a knowing smile.
“That was you?”
He winks. “Have you read it yet?”
“Cover to cover, several times,” I reply. “You slipped that in with all my other books before I moved?” He nods. “I used one of his spells and had one of the most vivid, surreal experiences. Ended up meeting the Goddess Diana and her lover, the God Herne.”
“Really?” His bushy brows rise almost to his hairline. “You’ll have to tell me all about that when we have more time.”
“Why did you give me that book in particular?”
“I’d have thought that would be obvious by now,” Grumps says. “Elias was the real deal, just like you. Your abilities are way beyond anything I’ve ever seen, and you’re only just tapping into them. You moved past anything I can teach you about magic quite some time ago.”
I look around again, and this time I spot a small man with curly grey hair approaching. He’s dressed in brown trousers and a thick cable-knit cardigan buttoned over a shirt and tie.
“Mr Ames,” he greets Grumps, shaking his hand. “I was told to expect you.” He turns in my direction.
“This is my grandson, Harrison.”
“Welcome to the archives.” He nods. “My name is Anselm. I’m one of the custodians here. I have taken the liberty of setting out some volumes I think might be of use. If you’ll follow me. Mr Ames, I understand you’ve visited us before?”
“Once, a very long time ago,” Grumps answers.
Anselm nods again. “This way, please.”
This place is incredible. It’s like something you’d expect to see in The Lord of the Rings.
Underground catacombs with vaulted stone ceilings high above us give the place a cavernous air, and the floor beneath my feet is ancient flagstone.
Between them are thick columns of intricately carved stonework, the kind long since lost to time.
“What is this place?” I ask as we follow Anselm past rows and rows of dark wood bookcases reaching so high that they are each equipped with their own ladder. Manuscripts, scrolls, and ancient, heavy-looking, leatherbound tomes fill every single shelf to the limit.
“This was originally the underground catacombs of an abbey built back in AD 564,” Anselm explains.
“After the original abbey was destroyed, these lay undiscovered for centuries, and as the average ground level rose as each generation added to the city, they sank deeper and deeper. When they were rediscovered by Elias Black in the mid-nineteenth century, he encouraged the building and spread of the cemetery above.”
“It’s the perfect cover,” I agree. “With no building projects allowed on or near such an old cemetery, there’s little fear of discovery.”
“Exactly,” Anselm says. “Each year, new discoveries are made in London. Every time they dig down for the foundations of a new build, they seem to hit Roman mosaics and all sorts of old relics. This was the perfect location for The Nox when it was founded. It was originally the headquarters, then it later became the archives. Of course, this place is protected—not just by the layout of the cemetery above, but by magic too.”
“Magic?” I repeat.
“Very much. The Nox has enemies of its own, who would love to get their hands on what is kept here.”
“So, is this Nox, or Night Guild, or whatever it’s called, an active guild? Like the Freemasons or the Illuminati?”
Anselm draws to a halt beside a long, highly polished table which has several lamps and a stack of very old-looking books on it.
“That is a story for another time, Master Ames.” He gestures towards a deeply cushioned chair pulled up to the table.
“Please take a seat. As Mr Ames should be aware, we ask that you do not go in search of any documents or manuscripts yourself. We have a very strict system to avoid anything being mislaid. If you require any further help, my brothers and I will be at your service.”
“Your brothers?”
“Aldred and Audren. They are also both custodians,” he replies as Grumps and I seat ourselves on opposite sides of the stacks of books.
“I have laid out several volumes pertaining to demons, demon magic, and blood magic as requested by Mr Ames. I can provide tea and refreshments if you require them, but we ask that you don’t have them near the manuscripts.
There is a seating area a little further down.
” He points to the other end of the cavernous room.
“Thank you, Anselm,” Grumps says, already pulling a thick black, leatherbound book towards him and carefully turning its crackling pages.
The quietly efficient man melts away, and I grab a book at random and begin to leaf through it.
“What did you say the name of that demon was?” Grumps asks.
“Ishaan,” I say quietly, not ready to share my paranoid fear that the demon is somehow in my head. Although if Sam is right, my ability to see what transpired in London a century and a half ago may not be due to the demon but some other supernatural entity entirely, and I’m not sure which is worse.
“Hmm. I say we divide and conquer. I’ll see if I can track down this particular demon while you look at demon traps. If we can figure out how the trap was constructed and how it works, we might be able to narrow down who created it and how to keep it from being opened.”
Yesterday, we all collectively decided that while Sam is back up north dropping off his client at that haunted hotel, Grumps and I should concentrate on the most immediate problem, which is how to stop someone from opening the demon trap.
“Sounds like a good idea. Right now, I’m operating on the assumption that one of the Crawshanks siblings created the trap.
Although it wasn’t common knowledge, I’ve seen enough to know each of them were magically gifted, plus they were the only ones who knew about the demon.
Anyone else who encountered Ishaan was either skinned, ripped apart, or one time… eaten.” I shudder.
Grumps nods, pursing his mouth in distaste, and leans back over his book.
I leaf through page after page until I finally come to a stop and stare at a depiction of a fully functional demon trap. The writing scrawled underneath the illustration reads:
Hester West. Mercy, Massachusetts. 1704.
“Grumps.” I tap the table to get his attention, then slide the book over to him, turning it around so he can see.
“Is this the trap you saw?” he asks.
“Yes. I recognise the layout and the symbols. This was the trap in the bookshop.”