Scroll- Part Two Read online

  I watched as Mum’s back retreated from view then turned back to the others and said softly, ‘I thought of that too. Look, photography works on the basis of reflected light; a camera takes in light that is reflected from the subject being photographed, focuses it through a lens and then applies it to the film inside the camera. It’s the contrast between the brighter and the darker shadowed areas on the subject that makes a photographic image visible.’

  ‘Okay, and so?’ Sage commented, trying to follow my logic.

  I made a noise under my breath. ‘So, the light source for the image on the artefact is internal, coming from within rather from an external source. In other words, the image seems to be created by internally generated light–’

  ‘–like when the artefact’s sentient?’ cut in Sage, her voice low.

  ‘Exactly,’ I agreed, ‘and so there’s a chemical reaction with the silver sulphate of the film – internal light rather than externally reflected light. I even have a theory about the internal light...’

  At this point, St. John’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Which would be what?’

  I turned away trying to hide my smile, and paused. ‘It’s starlight. Like heavenly light or whatever you call it. You know – like scientists always go on about with the Big Bang and supernovas and such. It stands to reason.’

  St. John didn’t even blink. ‘That is an interesting theory. What gave you that idea?’

  Shrugging, I prevaricated, ‘Not sure, really. It just came to me.’

  But I knew exactly when the idea had come to me; it was in the Catacombs. It made perfect sense that a cosmic map would harness the power of starlight, just as Gabriel had used starlight to open the iron grate. But I wasn’t about to tell my sister and St. John what had sparked my reasoning. At least, not yet.

  ‘That’s brilliant!’ My sister stated, clearly impressed. She may have said more but, at that moment, Mum called out from the kitchen, requesting that one of us let Indy outside, which we knew to be an order to take him for his daily walk.

  St. John took that as his cue. Glancing at his watch, he stated it was time for him to return to the museum and offered Sage a ride into town. Sage looked at me expectantly and back at her fiancé as he collected his keys and jacket, amber eyes softly pleading to be let off the hook this once.

  I rolled my eyes at her. ‘Fine, I’ll walk the stupid mutt. My boots are already ruined anyway ... INDY! WALK!’

  Sage mouthed ‘Thank you!’ as I levered myself out of the chair and went to collect Indy’s leash.

  I was almost out the kitchen door when Sage called out my name and I turned around.

  ‘Don’t forget you promised to keep your bedroom clean!’ she cautioned.

  And that was why, almost three weeks later, my bedroom was still in a fairly decent state.

  Not that Sage would have noticed. These days she spent as much time at the British Museum as possible. She had taken a part-time job there as a tour guide working with school groups so that she could be closer to St. John while they waited for permission to view some mouldy old book from the British Library. Even for an eminent scholar and Nephilim, the red tape of bureaucracy tied a person in knots.

  Luckily for Sage, Louis seemed to be liaising more often with Interpol and, perhaps because St. John was always present to protect her, paid little attention to her comings and goings at the museum. According to Dad, who no longer felt the need to be secretive about the artefact since its disappearance, Interpol were still pursuing several leads in the belief that someone working inside the museum must have worked with the thief and that the artefact would eventually make its way onto the black market.

  All of which left me at a loose end. I had finally decided to go through the neatly stacked piles of papers, photos and sketches on my desk and clear out the rubbish. It was either that or spend yet another day wasting my time on Facebook, Twitter and YouTube. The trouble was that wasting my time on the net was easier to do. As most of my friends lived in far-flung cities with vastly different time zones, I’d become like a vampire recently; living a strangely haunting half-life during the night and sleeping in till midday. On the rare days when the weather appeared more temperate, I would attend kickboxing classes at Fitness First, maintaining my athleticism. Since moving to Kent, I still was focused on my level of fitness and body image, though not nearly as obsessive as I’d been eighteen months ago.

  But when I had woken this morning, it was to the dim half-light of another bleak winter’s day. I glanced, disoriented, at the clock on my bedside table – it read ten-thirty six. Groaning, I rolled over onto my back and stared mindlessly up at the patterned ceiling, my quilt in disarray on the carpeted floor having slid off the bed during the night as I’d tossed and turned in my sleep, wrestling with snatches of images from my dreams of Finn and the gypsy fortune-teller. Not wishing to think about that particular episode, I contemplated what I was going to do with the rest of my day.

  As I lay there, sprawled across my mattress, I wondered how long this never-ending winter would last. Glancing outside the window, the weather did not seem promising; the dreary rain-filled clouds hung oppressively over the landscape, a reminder of the shocking English weather we were experiencing lately instead of a sultry summer in Sydney.

  I couldn’t stay in bed all day.

  My subconscious dredged up a reminder of the papers that needed to be sorted which Sage had painstakingly organised for me. First, however, a hot shower, a change of clothes and breakfast – or, more precisely, brunch – was in order.

  I made my bed and headed to the bathroom to perform my morning ritual. The hot shower didn’t last very long and I still felt irritable from my lack of sleep. And, as it was too much effort to blow-dry my hair, I let it curl naturally down my back – more like frizz naturally because of the climate – before plodding back into my bedroom where I changed into a clean pair of jeans and a boldly-patterned red and orange merino wool top.

  The house was silent as I made my way down to the kitchen. Sage and Dad were at the museum, the brats were at school, and Mum had left me a note propped up on the kitchen counter that informed me of her meeting up with an old friend from university in town. So I was left to my own devices with only Indy for company.

  I made a café latte and popped some bread into the toaster before settling myself at the breakfast table. Yawning, I picked up the remote control and turned on the television, but nothing interesting was on at that time except daytime soaps and some cooking show.

  Finishing my breakfast, I trotted back to my bedroom, Indy in tow, feeling a little more awake now than before. The papers on my desk beckoned and I slowly began the monumental task of sorting – something I hated doing, being somewhat of a hoarder. Old receipts and catalogues for photographic equipment and department stores, post-it notes with miscellaneous phone numbers, and even an out-of-date flyer advertising the Christmas markets at Notting Hill were amongst the junk I’d kept. These were binned while other items were put away properly, such as a small image torn from a magazine of the hottest boy band on the planet.

  At the bottom of the pile, I came across an item that reminded me of an obligation long past due. It was Finn’s sketchpad and I’d meant to return it to him ages ago. Sage had even told me to return it to Finn – of course that was before she had known about his connection to Louis and Ellen Jacobi and that he was Emim. I knew she would disapprove of what I was planning to do, but this was just the excuse I needed to carry it through.

  Donning my woollen overcoat, and a bright red pashmina scarf and beanie, the one with the colourful floral embroidered motif worked into the black background, and the sturdiest pair of boots I owned, which had been left drying in the laundry since New Year’s Eve, I placed the sketchpad in a plastic bag so it wouldn’t get wet and, picking up Indy’s leash, locked the door behind us as we ventured into the woods.

  I managed to make it half way to Satis House without incident. That’s when the skies opened up and the rains b
egan. Hard, ceaseless, they battered the overgrowth, turning the purity of snow to a charcoal-grey slush within moments. The sodden trees and shrubbery arced and bowed beneath the unyielding torrent. What poor brown and yellow leaves still remained on the trees clung limply to spindly branches. Everything else melted together like a priceless Impressionist artwork exposed to the deluge where the small, thin, individual brush strokes could no longer be distinguished from one another. The once magical landscape was buried beneath the rain’s drenching, oppressive weight.

  My frozen fingers held fast to the plastic bag with its protected, precious cargo and Indy’s straining leash – for a breed of gundog with his large paws meant to flush out and retrieve game from woods and water, he seemed particularly averse to getting wet, and half-dragged, half-wrenched me across the forest floor in a bid to get us indoors sooner – whilst rain dripped down into my eyes, plastering loose tendrils of hair to my face and obscuring my vision.

  I briefly debated turning back. But I was half way to my destination and it would take me equally as long to turn back now and return the way I had come. Resolutely, I carried on till the bulk of Satis House finally came into view.

  Smoke poured out of the chimney in the main hall, smelling of birch and hickory, almost completely camouflaged by the heavy rain, but the scent was tainted with something else, something undefinable that was far too sickly sweet for my liking. Yet the promise of a warm fireplace and a place to dry off was too appealing to deny.

  I approached the imposing front gate, but the huge iron lock remained in place forbidding visitors entry, so I followed the line of wire-mesh fence to where I had previously cut out a section in order to gain entrance to Satis Hall on New Year’s Eve. Indy, again, tugged and struggled on the leash, but this time it was in the opposite direction. He steadfastly refused to come forward, beginning a high-pitched whine that sounded like the continuous siren of an emergency vehicle. Now it was my turn to half-drag, half-wrench him through the wire-mesh fence and onto the grounds of Satis House.

  Pausing, I contemplated whether it was such a good idea to venture up the circular gravel driveway to the front door as I hadn’t previously considered the possibility that Louis Gravois might still be here and, all at once, my lack of precaution struck me. But there weren’t many options open to me, and I wasn’t about to debate it standing in the pouring rain. As I dithered under the darkened portico contemplating the solid brass knocker in front of me, ignoring Indy’s incessant warbling, the front door was flung open with such force that I automatically took a step back, turning to flee.

  A rush of dark wings brushed across my face causing me to gasp in fright as Kemwer escaped the confines of the hall and took to the tempestuous skies with Indy’s whining turning to an angry, low growl.

  ‘Great! Now look what you’ve done! I’ve been trying to keep Kemwer inside long enough to heal the cut on his wing!’ Finn exclaimed hotly, his indescribably beautiful bright blue eyes flashing a warning under impossibly long dark lashes. Then, dropping his voice to an aggressive hiss, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  I’d almost forgotten how tall he was – tall and big, with broad shoulders, and a wide chest, and flat stomach – artfully displayed beneath a tight, white cotton T-shirt and jeans. I don’t know what impressed me more – Finn’s hot appearance or the hot climate inside the shelter of Satis House which embraced me. I basked in the small comfort it provided as it collided with the cold air through the open doorway.

  Then I sneezed loudly. And again.

  The hot climate won. But only just.

  ‘What did you say?’ he asked, perplexed by my reply.

  I’d attempted to tell him the reason for my visit but my teeth were chattering in my skull so dreadfully that it made no sense at all; the words barely audible over the clackety-clack sound I was making, like the noise of a wind-up toy.

  I tried again, bearing aloft the plastic bag and waving it like a pendulum in front of his eyes. ‘I just wanted to return your sketchpad.’

  He looked at me like I’d finally cracked.

  ‘In this? Are you out of your mind?’ he demanded, gesturing beyond me to the pelting rain drenching the landscape, battering the forest and fields.

  I didn’t get the opportunity to reply as, at Finn’s harsh tone, Indy, who had been snarling the entire time since we had set foot on the property, let out a warning bark and leapt forward, jaws ready to snap around Finn’s outstretched arm.

  Indy never made contact.

  Finn’s lightening quick reflexes weren’t even a blur to my vision – one second his hand was pointing into the distance, the next it was wrapped around Indy’s muzzle. I didn’t even have time to cry out a warning on Finn’s behalf or a protest on Indy’s as Finn’s words, ‘You, down!’ and ‘You, inside!’ were shot out like bullets from between clenched teeth as Finn’s hand circled my upper arm in a vice-like grip and steered me towards the darkened interior where the entrance hall with its heavy oak panelling and great paving stones and dark carved staircase flashed by before my bewildered eyes, and propelled me through the double oak doors into what appeared to be a large Victorian-styled drawing room.

  Indy followed in our wake in subdued silence – or rather, he followed Finn in passive submission. Having exerted what little bravery he had, he now was more than willing to accept Finn as the Alpha male – the change in loyalty evident as he meekly lopped beside Finn over to the plush velveteen chaise lounge which Finn had obviously occupied prior to our arrival, tongue hanging out and tail whipping wildly as he curled up in front of the open fireplace and proceeded to lick and scratch himself with abandon.

  ‘Traitor!’ I hissed in a low voice, disgusted at my disloyal pointer, as I removed my sodden beanie and overcoat and draped them near the grate where immediately they began to steam and hiss in the heat emanating from the fire.

  A rustling sound attracted my attention and I immediately jumped thinking it was Louis’ adder, but it was only Finn removing his sketchpad from the rain-splattered plastic bag.

  ‘I suppose I ought to thank you for its return,’ he said, grudgingly; though I got the impression he was indifferent to my valiant effort on his behalf.

  I shrugged dismissively, an imitation of Gabriel, realising that during my brief stay in Paris I had almost mastered the art of the Gallic shrug.

  ‘No problem,’ I murmured, meaning anything but, as I took in my new surroundings.

  Brass lamps, footstools, silver candlesticks, clocks – both an Ormolu on the mantelpiece and a Grandfather clock in the corner – and mirrors, workboxes, sewing boxes, figurines of all description, paintings, etchings, drawings, drapery, china, ceramics, mineral displays, fossils, boxes, fans, feathers, wax fruit, plants, revolting and tatty stuffed animals – of the kind that hung on the wall – and scrapbooks, reading books, albums, pressed flowers, a magic lantern, a birdcage, several gaudy fern cases, etched sterling silver trays, vases, cushions, ink wells and fountain pens on a mahogany desk cluttered the room in an ostentatious display of wealth. Not to mention the macabre framed floral display –

  ‘It’s made out of human hair,’ Finn informed me, seeing my gaze fast upon it. I shuddered and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw his lips quirk in response.

  – and a violin and bow placed against an ornate ironwork stand holding music sheets and original scores, and the mandatory round drawing room table, all fit into this large, but oppressive, space.

  And still I felt the same faint, disturbing miasma of energy stirring from the objects which I’d experienced before, making me feel slightly queasy.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea? It’s Russian Caravan. I can assure you it isn’t poisoned,’ Finn asked politely, falling back on formality, like some comic character in a pantomime. He gestured to the silver service where steaming hot tea was being steeped. I nodded distractedly by way of response. ‘Milk or lemon? Sugar?’

  With the shake of my head, he handed me a cup and saucer and indicat
ed that I should take a seat upon the velveteen lounge. I found that my too pale, still trembling hands – which made the teacup rattle embarrassingly on the saucer – were starting to recover their feeling, experiencing that painful tingling sensation when the blood began pumping again into nerveless fingers.

  ‘Macaron?’ He offered, holding aloft a plate of pistachio macarons filled with raspberries and white chocolate ganache.

  Absent-mindedly, still taking my fill of the strange room, I accepted what was offered, along with a plate and napkin, but immediately set these items down on a side table. It all felt oddly surreal. I had no idea what was going on. I felt like I’d been transported into the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party.

  That the inhabitants of Satis House were well off and lived in what the Victorians would have considered style and comfort was evident; but it was neither for the style nor the comfort that the decorator of Satis House seemed to really care.

  ‘The former owner of Satis House believed in Duty,’ Finn stated, as if I’d asked a question. ‘His religion was Duty, and it was his duty to his position and his ancestry to live like this. It was right for people of his kind to keep up appearances; to act up to it.’

  Fetching another cup and saucer from a well-stocked mahogany cabinet, he fastidiously poured himself a cup, adding a slice of lemon, before sitting down on the facing burgundy leather Wing Back chair.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said, dripping water onto the velveteen chaise as my hair slowly dried into rats’ tails. ‘What happened to the former owner of Satis House? Didn’t he leave his estate to his children?’

  ‘He died,’ Finn stated bluntly, as if discussing the weather. There was absolutely no inflection in his voice, ‘of unfortunate circumstances. As did all of his descendants.’

  I almost knocked over the teacup on the side table as I gave a violent start. Knowing very well the Victorian tendency for breeding, as even Queen Victoria had given birth to nine children, I queried, my voice raised dangerously, ‘What? All of them? What happened?’