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  Still with my eyes closed, I imagined placing photographic paper in a chemical bath, imagined the exposure of the negatives, determining the base and emulsion sides of film, the fixer chemicals and stop baths and colour separation. I imagined taking one of Mum’s rags soaked in turpentine and slowly, carefully, dabbing at the oil on canvas, stripping away the old coat of paint to reveal what lay hidden beneath. I imagined peeling away labels, unwrapping presents, breaking through ice.

  I opened my eyes. And gave a low gasp.

  Satis House stood before me in all its true glory, its clean lines of honeyed stone, its wrought iron lacework and its leaded windows soaring to the clear night skies with a majesty that was breathtaking. Shimmering behind the glamour like incandescent blown glass, the reality behind the illusion shone through. I now understood Dickens’ fascination for the house towering over me. It was ironic that I’d had to study Great Expectations for my Finals and found, on moving to Kent, that the house featured in his novel was so close by to where we now lived, just beyond the woods.

  With newly opened eyes, I saw that while the windows of the upper floors were dark and shuttered against the winter chill, golden light poured through the arched French doors in the west wing leading out onto the terrace. Like a line of flame burning brightly along a distant ridge, spilling its beckoning warmth upon the flagstones outside, it repelled the dark shadows of night.

  I realised then that I was crouched amongst the thorny branches of wild rose which were climbing the fence surrounding the landscaped gardens of the property. Though the season had stripped the branches of its greenery, a lingering scent of musk seemed to drift in the still night air.

  Detaching myself from the foliage, I made a dash to the side of the house closest to me, keeping well clear of the golden pools of light. I could feel the cold chill of stone through the layers of my clothing where my back was pressed up against the wall, but it barely registered in my mind as I took stock of my surroundings. There was no way I was going to be able to climb to the upper levels, so I needed to circle the perimeter of the house and hope that there would be a way in without me needing to break and enter. Hugging the wall as close as possible, I pushed forward into the blackness beyond until I came to what I assumed to be the servants’ side entrance.

  Please let it be open! I begged silently, trying the handle.

  But, of course, that would have been too easy. It was locked – as were the other doors and windows that I tried in succession.

  I now found myself approaching the brightly-lit west wing. From somewhere inside, someone was playing Chopin’s Nocturne and playing it very well. I recognised the tune easily as it was a favourite of my mother’s – she and Sage both shared a terribly romantic streak. I didn’t care much for classical music normally, but this guy was good, seriously sick. Even though blunted through the diamond-paned windows and thick stone walls, the feeling invested in the tune by the accomplished pianist was undeniable. Someone called up at their fingertips the range of emotions from the fullness of passion to despair in their rendition of Chopin, enough to possibly match the composer himself with his tormented story of unrequited love.

  The music made me pause. There was something hauntingly familiar about it that had nothing to do with the tune.

  I hesitated behind a darkened corner of the estate leading onto the flagstone terrace, unsure of what my next move would be, when a shadow passed in front of one of the arched French doors as it was violently flung open and a tall, slim male figure stepped out into the enveloping darkness of night. The music was louder now, haunting in its feeling, but the man on the terrace seemed particularly immune to its charm. Striking up a match, he lit a cigarette taken from a packet he extracted from his trouser pocket; the flare of flame, quickly extinguished, allowed me a brief opportunity to view his face.

  He was really quite handsome in an appealing “pretty boy” way – sporting pale, classical features and an aquiline nose, his hair the palest shade of blond, almost white – he wore a haughty, bored expression. He held the cigarette between long, slender fingers, and every now and again inhaled in a manner that seemed to belie his indifferent pose. There was a slight edginess about the way in which he moved that contradicted his expression and, for some reason, sent chills down my spine.

  ‘For God’s sake, Louis, come back inside and close that damn door! You’re letting in all the cold air!’

  The cultured female voice held a touch of asperity. Her clipped British accent brittle and sharp, demonstrating her obvious displeasure. I knew that voice, though I had heard it only the once prior to tonight and wondered what the hell she was doing here at Satis House instead of attending the Akitu festival at the museum where she belonged.

  A barrage of conflicting feelings assailed me – anger, shock, fear, the desire for revenge ... and more. If I was surprised at Louis Gravois’ changed appearance from when I’d seen him last in his true form in the woods, I was equally astonished that he was present here at Satis House and obviously not alone. In his mortal form, Louis didn’t seem very fearful but I wasn’t about to underestimate him – this was the same creature that had tried to attack my sister and me in the forest a few days ago. If I had a seraph blade I might have summoned the courage to kill him here and now, regardless of his involvement in Interpol’s investigation which could cause trouble for my father and St. John, but I knew it was futile to try to attack a Rephaim without a weapon that could cause them injury or death, especially if I was to avoid injury and death to myself. Like I said, I wasn’t stupid.

  Louis Gravois dismissively flicked the still-lit cigarette onto the snow-covered landscaped lawn – not in response to the woman’s demands but instead in awareness of the arrival of another.

  ‘He’s here,’ Louis stated bluntly, turning to re-enter the room with determined strides, not bothering to close the door behind him.

  I looked out along the gravel path leading up to the house; its front entrance all but obscured by a dark portico. There was no sound of a car engine approaching or the sweep of headlights from beyond the estate’s wrought iron gates. I may have thought Louis mistaken but for a frisson of energy that seemed to be borne on the particles of air themselves, like the flow of an electric current.

  Underneath Chopin’s Nocturne another sound could be heard. At first, it was a mere whisper like the rush of the wind between cracks in stone. But then I slowly became aware of the low, dull rhythm of a heartbeat similar to the unnatural thud of a helicopter’s rotor blades as it parted the air – except that it didn’t sound like a helicopter and I hadn’t noticed a helipad on the grounds of Satis House as I’d made my way around its perimeter. The strange whomp, whomp, whomp grew louder still, overwhelming the strains of music from within the house which was then abruptly cut off, unable to compete with the peculiar noise.

  And suddenly all was still and silent.

  I waited in the shadows for what might have been minutes or hours but, most probably, were mere seconds before making up my mind. Edging closer to the pair of French doors leading onto the terrace which Louis had left open, I tentatively peeked through its closed partner to view the room’s interior.

  I took in a hundred insignificant details without truly processing them; from the bookshelves that lined the walls to the pattern of the fabric of the settee facing the fireplace. The drawing room was of large proportions; its high ornate ceiling with its shadowy corners was brightened by the hand painted silk wallpaper, the colour of matte mandarin decorated with a riot of fleur-de-lis.

  The main source of illumination came from the roaring fire beneath an ornate Italian marble mantelpiece surmounted by an antique brass clock and a large gilded mirror. Wall sconces flanking the mirror on both sides provided a little more light from their dull brass lamps, enough to set my mind at ease. The room was empty. The former occupants had left.

  Automatically, I put one hand to the surface of the door to push myself to my feet. The instant my palm came into contac
t with the smooth wood I felt an unpleasant sensation sweep through me, almost electric like a voltage charge. I quickly snatched my hand away. Something was not quite right with Satis House. But then I already knew that.

  Rising, I quickly crossed the threshold and hurried to the opposite side of the room where it opened onto the long gallery, careful not to touch anything on my way.

  The gallery was bathed in chiaroscuro light. Haunting shadows clung to the walls and parquetry floor, receding into infinity. The effect was far from comforting. In the far distance, I could just make out a slither of light from beyond Satis House’s main entrance. It sliced the floor like the blade of a sword, fighting against the darkness.

  Moving stealthily out into the gallery, I almost shrieked when a figure loomed over me from a deep recessed alcove in the wall. Stifling my scream by biting down on my bottom lip, I tasted the metallic sharpness of my own blood. Heart thudding, I breathed a sigh of relief when I realised it was merely a statue.

  Only now did I become aware of the gallery’s macabre collection. Strange statues and glass display cases filled with mysterious objects lined one side of the gallery. It was as if I had stepped into a natural history museum.

  In the first display case I came upon I could discern in the gallery’s dim light a gruesome collection of exotic butterflies, their spread wings pinned to the board beneath. It reminded me a little too much of The Silence of the Lambs and I gave a slight shudder. It was not the design and shape of the objects or artefacts that appeared abnormal and put me on edge. It was as if there was something unwholesome about the collection – a faint, disturbing miasma of energy stirring in the atmosphere. Stirring from the objects.

  The gallery was crammed with an assortment of artefacts that seemed to have no particular order or categorisation. Statuary, urns, jewellery and weapons clashed with fossils, rocks and minerals, and insect and animal specimens. I wondered about the grisly acquisition’s collector – what kind of man would compile such an appalling collection?

  Jerking my attention away from the display cases, not wishing to examine them too closely, I decided to stow my backpack behind a large nude statue so I didn’t have to shoulder its weight and made my way down the gallery to where it opened out onto the entrance hall. The entrance hall itself evidenced a bygone era – all heavy oak panelling and great paving stones. A dark carved staircase stood at the back of the hall, its shadows pierced by the single slit of light emanating from under the closed double oak doors to the left of the hall.

  Hiding behind the banister, I mustered my resolve and was about to move forward in an attempt to get closer to hear what was occurring behind the elaborately carved doors when something slithered in the darkness crossing directly in my path. But I had no time to think or react as a shadow detached itself from the wall, giving a loud, whistling shriek as it broke the suspended silence with a rush of its large, black wings, striking quickly and with a deadly accuracy.

  THE FIRST INCURSION

  CHAPTER TWO

  Immediately the double oak doors were flung open in response to the sound of a bomb falling though without the accompanying explosion, swamping the entrance hall in a flare of bright light from the interior of the library. I instantly jerked back, hiding myself behind the wooden banister. The illumination from within revealed an immense, sooty-grey Peregrine Falcon perched now upon the opposite banister from where I crouched, its feathers slightly ruffled. At the bottom of the stairwell slithered a squat, heavy-bodied adder; the distinctive black zigzag stripe running the length of its back could barely be distinguished from the design on the parquetry floor that abutted the paving stones. Horrified, I realised that I would probably have stepped on or near this venomous snake if it hadn’t made its presence known. The thought made me slightly queasy.

  Louis Gravois seemed intensely displeased, his face a cold mask of anger and contempt. It seemed that he would have struck out at the Peregrine Falcon if he could as there was barely constrained violence in his every move, but for a voice that came from the top of the landing behind me; ringing out in bell-like tones.

  ‘I wouldn’t if I were you. Don’t even think about it.’

  Louis lifted his arrogant, classically-carved features to face the interloper who was now making his way down the stairs. ‘Why don’t you keep your pet in a cage where it belongs?’

  ‘I could say the same for you,’ the young man said, having descended to the bottom of the stairwell to stand beside the now docile falcon. ‘Besides, Kemwer is not a pet and doesn’t belong in a cage. He’s merely obeying his territorial instincts. After all, he’s been here much longer than you and your adder, brother.’

  I gave a low gasp, feeling shaken at the mention of the word “brother” as, even in profile, I could easily recognise the young man as the caretaker of Satis House ... and my rescuer.

  Louis Gravois was his brother? Bloody hell! It was too bizarre to be believed!

  The young caretaker of Satis House must have heard me because he stiffened infinitesimally in reaction, though he didn’t betray my presence. In the dim light of the entrance hall, his jet black hair absorbed the darkness, making his pale skin and arresting bright blue eyes stand out even more. He was extraordinarily handsome, even for a Nephilim, and so very different from the pale beauty of Louis and the golden beauty of Gabriel and St. John.

  Forcing myself to pay attention, I found Louis was now talking.

  ‘And whose fault is that, little brother?’ Louis all but spat the word as if it soiled his mouth to state the fact that they were related. ‘You let the Woods girl get away and now she’s protected by those fools. If he didn’t believe that you may still prove useful, I would have killed you centuries ago.’

  ‘Of that, I have no doubt,’ the young man stated indifferently, uncaring whether his words might further incite the Rephaim standing before him, as if this argument was old and tedious. ‘Feel free to do your worst.’

  But before Louis could react another voice rang out from the open doorway.

  ‘Now, now, boys. Playtime’s over,’ Ellen Jacobi chided as she made her way towards the two young men facing each other across the dim expanse of the entrance hall, her high heels clicking sharply against the paving stones as she walked.

  Coming to a halt next to the fair Rephaim, she lifted a perfectly manicured hand to stroke his arm in what seemed a strangely possessive gesture. I had been certain that she was involved with Dr Porterhouse when last I’d seen them together, but now I wasn’t so sure.

  Whatever. I’d never really liked her anyway. Yet Louis didn’t seem to even notice Ellen Jacobi’s proprietary gesture, so absorbed was he in his confrontation with his raven-haired brother.

  ‘He’s expecting you to attend upon him,’ Dr Jacobi continued, her voice seductively low and husky, ‘I wouldn’t keep him waiting if I were you.’

  Louis’ expression became cool and gloating, pale blue eyes glinted in the dimness of the hall. ‘Well, little brother, it looks like you’ve escaped ... again. We won’t be able to finish this conversation as I’d like ... what a pity. But don’t think you’ve heard the last of it.’

  Louis turned then, his movements lightning fast as he scooped up the slithering adder from the floor, not even flinching when it bit his hand, and walked back towards the open double doors. All the while I watched in morbid fascination as he stroked the snake’s smooth scales, murmuring to his pet in a perverse lover-like manner, before he disappeared from view.

  Ellen Jacobi still stood in front of the young man on the staircase, quietly assessing him from beneath long, darkened eyelashes.

  ‘I meant both of you, not just Louis.’ There was something almost feral in the way she moved, coming to lean on the banister in front of him. ‘He’s expecting you too, Phoenix. Don’t think that you can avoid him indefinitely. He won’t allow that.’

  Spying on their conversation, I saw him brush her hand away as she reached out to touch him in a similar manner to his brother. Her
lips momentarily tightened in response before relaxing into a sultry smile.

  ‘Such a waste,’ she murmured, turning back to walk towards the still open doorway, ‘So much passion expended on that piano of yours. Wouldn’t you prefer to feel real passion, Phoenix? It could easily be arranged. If you ask nicely, he might even give you the Woods girl to play with before we kill her.’

  A surge of anger welled up in me as her mocking, tinkling laughter floated over her shoulder to where Louis’ “little brother” and I were frozen in our respective poses, before she disappeared behind the double oak doors which swung closed in her wake. Sage had once thought of Ellen Jacobi as a warm woman from her first interview in Dad’s office – I couldn’t understand how wrong my sister’s judgement could be as the woman I’d just seen was a real biatch.

  I had no idea what was truly going on in this household, no idea what Ellen Jacobi’s involvement was nor where the rivalry between Louis and his brother sprang from, all I knew was that both Louis Gravois and Ellen Jacobi had mentioned killing my sister, Sage, and I wasn’t going to allow that to happen. I gritted my teeth, overwhelmed by the impulse to attack no matter the risk when I was caught and held by the young man’s interruption upon my fuming thoughts.

  ‘You cannot be here.’

  The statement was delivered in a harsh, flat tone with none of its usual beauty. Just an unyielding, implacable authority. Uncompromising. All harmony and lyricism was stripped from his voice, masking its true nature, as he still stood facing away from me, eyes focused on the closed double oak doors.

  I froze, feeling the first trickling of dread down my spine overcoming my rage. Seconds ticked over.

  Satisfied that the doors would remain closed, the young man finally turned to face me, given an enormous advantage in height where he stood on the dark curving staircase. From where I crouched low behind the banister, I took his full measure. To say that he wasn’t pleased to see me would have been an understatement. He was livid with repressed anger. But only his intense lapis lazuli coloured eyes betrayed this emotion. His flawless face could have been carved in stone – remaining so cold and remote, it almost made me flinch.