Resurrectionists (67 page)

“It just means we can’t mess this up.” He took her hand and nodded towards the sea. “Come on. It’s time.”

They left everything behind – blankets, Sacha’s backpack – and took only the lantern. Somehow leaving the objects behind to be collected later made Maisie feel a little more comfortable, a little more confident that there would be a later. Down the cliff face and along the beach again – this time a narrow strip because the ravenous tide had risen. Foamy spray shot up from behind the rocks. The wind was gusting madly, mocking their layers of clothes. They took the path up to the cemetery, moving slowly and cautiously when they approached the top. The path branched off north towards the cottage, south towards the snowy graves and the abbey.

“I wonder if they’re there yet,” Maisie said, indicating the cottage.

“Of course. They would have been there since dark.”

“I hope Tabby’s all right.”

“Don’t worry about the cat. She doesn’t even like you.”

“But still . . .”

“Come on, we’ll cut straight across the cemetery behind those trees.” They had reached the top of the path. Before her, spread out into the distance, were shadowy gravestones leaning this way and that in the dark, the clumps of snow which clung to them glistening dimly. Clusters of trees here and there were ghostly silhouettes with pockets of blackness huddling behind them, the bare branches casting veiny shadows which pulsed eerily with the wind. Maisie lifted the lantern to look at it glowing faintly blue in the dark.

“It’s like a magic lantern, isn’t it?” Sacha said.

“Rub it and the genie appears.”

“We hope the genie will appear. We haven’t even tried it.”

“We couldn’t have. It’s for soul magic only.”

Maisie sighed, gazed at the abbey, a ruined black shadow in the distance. “Let’s get this over with.”

He squeezed her hand and they advanced into the cemetery.

They kept close to trees and shadows, picking their way over graves and between the headstones. Behind them, the sea pounded mournfully. Maisie could hear her heartbeat hammering past her ears.
Try not to
think about it.
She clutched Sacha’s hand in her own, in the other hand held the lantern by her side. Dread weighed heavily upon her heart. Her breath was a cloud in front of her.

“What was that?” Sacha suddenly stopped, cocked his head to listen.

“I can’t hear anything over the waves,” Maisie replied.

“I thought I heard . . .” He turned and looked in the direction of the cottage. “Oh, Jesus.”

Maisie spun round. Advancing in the distance were two gaunt, cloaked figures.

“Run,” Sacha said. And when she didn’t move, when she found herself frozen to the spot, he prodded her roughly in the back and yelled, “Run!”

They took off across the cemetery, over rough ground, between headstones and trees. When Maisie dared to look back, the Wraiths were closer, now only a hundred metres away. They moved with horrifying speed, gliding over shadows. Sacha was a little ahead of her. She kept her eyes forward. The skin on her back seemed to be prickling. She felt so vulnerable, so horribly exposed. She judged the distance ahead of them, then quickly checked the position of the Wraiths again. She was no mathematician, but she knew there was no way they were going to make it out of the cemetery before the Wraiths caught up. And even if they did make it to the street, which villager would let them in? Which villager would shelter them? She felt a scream trapped deep inside her, kept her head down and kept running.
This can’t
be happening.
As though in a nightmare, she kept running, knowing it was useless.

Suddenly, Sacha fell down in front of her. He cried out in pain.

“Sacha!” she stopped and crouched next to him, trying to help him up.

“I tripped. I’ve hurt something.”

She got him to his feet, but he could barely stand let alone run. “Go, get away,” he said.

“Sacha, I can’t leave you here.” She looked up, watching helplessly as the Wraiths advanced on them.

“How did they find us?”

“Who cares how they found us? Maybe they can smell souls. Just run. I’ll be all right.”

Souls. Virgil’s letter said that the Wraiths were controlled by Flood’s magic, and the way to fight magic was with like magic. She straightened up, held the lantern out in front of her. Her arm was trembling so much that the lantern bobbed about in the dark. The Wraiths continued their relentless forward movement, almost casually. By now, she could hear that wet, rhythmic sound which might have been their breathing.

“Stay back!” she cried, holding the lantern high.

“Stay back or I’ll . . .” Ridiculous. She had no idea how to finish the sentence. Her knees had turned to water, her stomach was a hollow pit.

But, bafflingly, the Wraiths had paused about ten metres away.

“Maisie?” Sacha whispered.

“Soul magic,” she replied, feeling bolder. “It’s how Flood keeps them alive.”

“What are we going to do? We can’t just stand here looking at each other.”

“Start moving, slowly.”

They took two steps backwards. The moment they moved the Wraiths resumed their glide forward. Maisie screamed and backed into Sacha, who fell over again. She held the lantern forward once more.

“Stop!” she said. “I command you to stop.”

They didn’t stop. They moved slowly towards her. Her body seemed to be falling apart with fear. She couldn’t leave Sacha as their prey – she had seen what they had done to Sybill.
What do I do?

The first time she held up the lantern, the Wraiths had stopped. It had unsettled them. Perhaps she needed to trust that it would work. She stood tall, forcing her body to stop trembling. She pulled her right glove off with her teeth and spat it out onto the ground. Closer still, they came. A faint smell of decay circled about them, and now she had a horrible idea that she could see under their hoods where their faces should have been. Some sick, gloomy light moved like liquid among a ragged jumble of bone fragments. Maisie realised with horror that the sound she had taken for breathing was actually the pulse of that unnatural light around the bones. The realisation almost undid her resolve. She took a huge breath, forced air into her lungs. With her right hand she touched the lantern.

At this movement, the Wraiths stopped. She barely knew what she was doing, but they had stopped, so she must be doing it right.

“Stay back,” she said, trying to sound menacing. Sacha was climbing to his feet behind her. She glanced away from the Wraiths to check on him and in that instant they closed in, their speed unnatural and horrifying. In an automatic movement, she took her fingers away from the lantern and held them out, an instinctive “stop” gesture.

A loud electric crack followed. Maisie felt a shock in her fingers, thought for a second she saw pale phosphorescent lightning running along her hand. The crack was followed immediately by a howl of pain. No, two howls of pain, for both the Wraiths had stopped and were screaming: a deafening, black sound which made Maisie want to cover her ears. But she stood firm, her hand in front of her, her whole arm shuddering with fear. The earth beneath her feet began to shake, tree branches swung all about her. Around the Wraiths the ground seemed to grow darker, as though a shadowy maw was opening up where they stood.

“Oh, god,” Maisie cried, afraid to blink.

A swirling, sucking noise came from the black earth, a gathering force scarcely two metres from her feet. Then, suddenly, amid screams and a ghastly deafening hiss, the Wraiths disappeared, both sucked violently into the ground.

The noise ceased abruptly. Maisie stood, still holding her hand in front of her. Her breathing was loud in her ears. The ground had stilled, the dark space closed over. She could hear the sea again, the graveyard was empty but for her and Sacha.

“Maisie?”

She didn’t answer him. He stood next to her, gently pushed her arm down.

“Maisie, I think they’re gone.”

“Then I . . . I did it?”

He looked around them, ventured a relieved smile.

“Yeah, it looks like you did.”

It seemed she drew breath for the first time in an age. “Oh god. Oh, thank god.”

“But we don’t know for sure if they’ll stay put.”

“Can you walk?”

“Yes. Not very fast. I’ve definitely torn something.”

“The guy’s not supposed to sprain his ankle, you know. I’m sure that should have been my job.”

They laughed cautiously, boldly.

“I can do it, Sacha,” she said. “If I could do it to them, I can do it to him.”

He bent to pick up her glove. “Let’s get it over with then.”

They hurried towards the abbey, Sacha hobbling on his injured leg. Her earlier fear had been displaced by an almost demented sense of relief. A voice of reason, way back, told her she was being too confident, that she needed to keep a cool head. But her nerves were in too much turmoil, her heart too close to bursting, to listen to reason.

Dirty snow still lay over the ruins of the abbey. Maisie led Sacha to the corner spire, where an iron door had been fitted.

“Here we are.”

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yes, I think so. Maybe I’m on a roll.”

“Go on then.”

She touched the lantern and then put her fingers out to the lock, expecting the same electric pop, expecting the door to open sesame. Nothing happened. She tried again. Again, nothing.

“Maisie,” Sacha said softly. “Magic for like magic, remember.”

“Yes.”

“This door isn’t locked with magic. It’s just locked.”

“Shit.” She turned to him. “Any good at picking locks?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t suppose they teach you that at music school?”

She didn’t smile. “Quick, let’s get back in the shadows. People might be able to see us from here.”

They ducked back behind the ruins, facing the cemetery.

“I can’t believe this!” Maisie said, setting the lantern on the ground. “Just when I think I know what I’m doing, just when I feel I can beat this –”

“Don’t despair. We’ll think of something.”

“What? What can we do? Try to break in? It’s close enough to the road for some concerned citizen to see us, and then we’ll have Tony Blake all over us. I simply cannot fucking believe this!”

Maisie and Sacha stood in the path of the wind, frozen to the bone, trying to force their minds to turn over the problem.

Second passed, minutes. Then Maisie looked up, shook her damp hair out of her eyes. “Sacha,” she said, “how about we pay a visit on the Reverend?”

He was waiting for a tap at the window – one of the Wraiths come to fetch him. They would wait until late, but he found himself sitting on the edge of his chair from nightfall, hoping that the awful tapping wouldn’t come at all, that Maisie had left and they had sensed the house was empty – for they could sense such things

– and given up. So when the knock came and it was at the front door, not the window, he was bewildered. He rose cautiously and went to answer it.

“Who’s there?”

“Reverend Fowler, let me in.” A female voice. She sounded desperate.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Maisie. Please, you have to let me in.”

What to do? Was she running from the Wraiths?

Could he leave her on his own doorstep to be torn apart by those creatures? Before he thought better of it, he was unlocking the door. Two people pushed in. He stumbled back. Maisie and the young man – yes, it was Sybill’s gardener – entered the room and closed the door firmly behind them. He backed away, trembling.

“Please, Reverend. We’re not going to hurt you,”

Maisie said. She held an antique lantern in her right hand.

“I . . . I –”

“Just stay calm. Is there somewhere we can go to talk?”

He felt helpless, confused. “I shouldn’t talk to you,” he said.

“We’re here now. You have to talk to us,” the young man said.

He indicated towards his modest lounge room. They flanked him as they went forward, as though afraid he might run. Which was his instinct, of course. They gently propelled him towards an armchair. Maisie kneeled in front of him, the young man hovered nearby.

“Reverend, this is Sacha,” Maisie said.

The Reverend looked up at Sacha and then back to the girl. “What do you want with me?”

“You have to get us in to Flood’s rooms,” she said urgently.

Flood’s rooms? How much did she know? This was a nightmare.

“I can’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who is Flood? What do you mean?” He could hear his own unconvincing tones letting him down again.

“Reverend,” Sacha said, and the Reverend was surprised to hear his voice gentle and patient. “We know everything.”

“We’ve destroyed the Wraiths,” Maisie said. “It’s all over. Just get us into Flood’s rooms. You know it’s for the best.”

“For the best?” He imagined how he must look to them, a bewildered old man. It made him angry enough to fight back. “For the best for whom? Not me. Flood has a temper. I’m not going to goad him.”

“The Wraiths are gone. What more can he threaten you with?”

“Gone? How can they be?”

Maisie held up the lantern. “Soul magic. You know what that is, don’t you?”

Soul magic. Two words which were light, musical, even inspiring when separated. But together they horrified him. “Soul magic isn’t real. It’s a tale told to children to frighten them.”

Maisie and Sacha exchanged glances. Their

consternation unsettled him. “Don’t say anything else,” he said. “I beg you, don’t say anything else.”

“Reverend, you know what Flood does, don’t

you?” This was Maisie. He met her dark brown eyes anxiously. She looked solicitous, concerned. This wasn’t Sybill, who tried to tell him things to manipulate him. Outrageous things. Things he never wanted to hear again.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, don’t say any more.”

“But you’ve been involved all this time,” she continued. “You
must
know.”

He put his hands to his ears. Long ago – how old had he been, seven? eight? – his father had told him something, an awful tale of eternal burial alive, and how it had to happen to protect himself and his friends. But the Reverend had convinced himself it was a fairy tale. And when evidence had mounted up over the years – including Sybill’s attempts to communicate with him – he had fallen back on that conviction. It was below the surface, just a few inches below, that the conviction could not be held. These young people were mining through those few inches now, and he couldn’t bear it.