The Skeleton Key (2 page)

I adjusted it and looked up at the sun. It sat low in the sky.

Luke.

Could I get home in time by my usual subway route? That meant crossing Central Park, and that might take a touch too long. But cabs were expensive, especially considering how far uptown I needed to travel. It was kind of off the map.

I was just considering my options when I noticed a long, black car through a gap in the pedestrians. The car was parked and the back door was open, waiting for a passenger. A toweringly tall man, as pale as parchment, stood next to it. He wore dark sunglasses, an impeccable black suit and black shoes that shone in the early evening light. His pallor and deathlike stillness were unnerving. And familiar.

‘Hi, Vlad,' I said.

He didn't speak. I had never heard him speak.

I shook my head and smiled to myself as I slid onto the comfortable upholstery in the back seat of Celia's car. Vlad shut the door for me. My great-aunt knew about my date and she'd sent her chauffeur to get me home on time. This sort of thing happened with some regularity, though I tried to discourage it. Great-Aunt Celia was already providing me with a wonderful room and hospitality, and she insisted on picking up the tab for my groceries. I didn't want her chauffeur to ferry me around, too. It was too much. But this evening was special, so I strapped myself in without protest. ‘Thank you,' I told Vlad as he started the car.

In moments we pulled away from the kerb into the flow of traffic with a smoothness I would have thought impossible. Before long we were out of SoHo and on our way uptown along Madison Avenue, where I pressed my face to the car window and gazed out at the passing spectacle of stores and skyscrapers. We slowed occasionally in patches of congested traffic but managed to hit the Upper East Side in good time, passing row upon row of houses that were so tightly knit that the population of a single block was probably higher than the entire population of my hometown.

Eventually we pulled into the green expanse of Central Park, the famous Manhattan oasis where the recent arrival of spring gave everything a fresh dash of colour. On either side of the road, flowers were already budding and the trees looked luscious and full. The sight filled me with cheer. Vlad turned down a single-lane road in the park and as we approached the little tunnel that led to home, the car was enveloped by a thick fog. For a moment I couldn't see beyond the car's windscreen, let alone past the headlights.

Spektor is always surrounded by fog. And it doesn't appear on any map (or GPS). I'd found these facts peculiar at first, but it is amazing what you can get used to when your reality requires it.

Presently we emerged from the wall of fog to find ourselves on the quiet main street of Spektor, where a light mist clung to the old buildings. We passed Harold's Grocer, which was open day and night, and pulled up at Number One Addams Avenue, a large mansion in the heart of the suburb.

Home spooky home.

Vlad opened the door for me and I stepped out, clutching my satchel. ‘Thanks so much,' I said.

Vlad was perhaps a full foot taller than me and I found myself staring at him for a moment. His face was pale, placid and expressionless
. He is so still
, I observed. If he breathed, I couldn't tell. In the reflection of his dark sunglasses I could see that the sun was starting to set, its radiance filtered through layers of light mist.

‘Well, um, thanks again,' I said awkwardly and scurried towards the big iron gates at the front door.

I had perhaps twenty minutes.

N
umber One Addams Avenue was built in the 1880s in neo-Gothic style. It towered over the other buildings of Spektor, its embellished arches, turrets and spikes stretching up to the sky. In time, the stonework of the great mansion had faded to stained variations of grey, but the imposing nature of the building remained. It stood a proud five storeys high and took up most of a small city block. Designed by the infamous Victorian-era architect and psychical researcher Dr Edmund Barrett, it was said to house twisting passageways and a hidden laboratory where many mysterious experiments had taken place before Dr Barrett's untimely death. It was clear the mansion had seen better days, but though the windows on the middle floors were boarded up, giving it a slightly abandoned air, it would be wrong to assume those floors were uninhabited.

Soon those who slept beyond those covered windows would wake.

Given the opportunity, it was advisable to get home before this occurred. My timing was good.

I slid my house key into the lock, and after a murmured word of encouragement, managed to open the heavy wooden front door. The entry lobby always seemed to have a tomblike chill and I pulled my collar close as I stepped inside. Perhaps it would warm up a bit come summer? There was little doubt this entry area would have once been grand. It boasted a high ceiling, beautiful tilework and a lift encased in an intricate – if broken – cage of ironwork. A circular staircase to one side snaked up to a mezzanine floor, barred by a large door I had not yet managed to open. Above me, the large lobby chandelier was impressive, though it hung askew, draped in layers of cobwebs and dust.

At the sight of it I rolled my eyes.

I'd lost count of the number of times I'd taken out my great-aunt's ladder and straightened that chandelier. How many times had I dusted it and carefully wiped down the heavy, tear-shaped crystals? There had to be a draft somewhere, pushing the dust around. It was disappointing, but never mind.

Schraaack.

I took a step across the lobby and stopped.

Thrrrraaaaaaack.

There it was again. I'd heard those sounds before, always in the lobby. Was it something beneath the floor? A kind of movement? A trick of acoustics? I couldn't identify the source of the noise and it seemed that every time I stopped to concentrate on it, the house grew quiet again. Like it knew that I was listening. But tonight was special and precious time was passing, I reminded myself. I made my way towards the old-fashioned lift, my heels clicking on the tiles. The elevator was waiting for me on the lobby floor and as soon as I pushed the call button, the doors opened with a squeak. I didn't hear any weird noises from the lift, and I didn't want to think about them for the moment anyway. Mind firmly on the evening ahead, I took the elevator to the top floor, watching the dusty landings pass as I went. I hadn't attempted to clean those landings; it seemed decidedly unwise considering the others who lived on the middle floors. Plus, it wasn't really
my
 job, was it?

On the top floor, I stepped up to the big midnight-blue doors of my great-aunt Celia's penthouse. Knocking first was one of my great-aunt's rules. I rapped my knuckles on the old door, slid my key in and stepped inside.

‘Hi, Great-Aunt Celia. I'm home,' I declared cheerily.

The penthouse was warm and comforting as I entered. I hung my coat on the mirrored Edwardian coat stand and slipped off my heeled shoes, sinking a couple of inches.

Celia's penthouse still had the power to take my breath away. It was a remarkable space, with high domed ceilings and sparking chandeliers. Unlike the chandelier downstairs, these ones – and in fact the entire penthouse – never collected dust. The floors of the penthouse were gleaming polished wood and the main room in which I now stood was filled with rows of bookcases holding thick, mysterious tomes, some in languages I didn't even recognise. Each item of furniture was antique – Victorian, Edwardian, art deco. Tables and chairs bore animals and mythical creatures, carved into the wood. Glass-fronted sideboards held artefacts as varied and curious as any museum's. A carved tusk. A Venus flytrap. A two-headed coin. Fertility statues. An art deco nymph. Butterflies and moths in gleaming glass domes. A live black widow spider in a glass cage. (That last item made me shudder.)

Tonight Celia had the curtains open over the tall, arched windows to reveal a crimson and maroon sunset, set against the spectacular Manhattan skyline. The Empire State Building stood out, silhouetted in black. Soon I would be there with Luke, enjoying the view, I hoped.

My great-aunt was seated, as usual, under the halo of her reading light in the lovely nook where she spent much of her time, surrounded by her books. I could see her elbow, and then she peeked her head around the corner.

‘Good evening, Pandora. What very good timing you have. The Crow Moon will rise soon,' she said.

She had her feet up on the leather hassock and, next to it, her cat Freyja was curled up. Freyja was pure white, an albino, with beautiful opal-coloured eyes. She lifted her head and purred at me contentedly, then snuggled into her furry paws again. She must have had a big day of adventure to be so tired.

‘The moon will be spectacular,' I agreed and nodded enthusiastically. There was just enough time to quickly shower and change. I didn't want to miss a minute of the evening ahead. ‘You didn't need to send Vlad,' I told my great-aunt. ‘It's too generous of you.'

‘But you wouldn't have arrived in time for sunset,' she replied calmly, forever pragmatic.

‘Still . . .' I began.

My great-aunt's slim ankles were encased in fine stockings – she always wore the kind with the line up the back – and now she uncrossed her ankles and slipped her feet into a pair of elegant, heeled slippers. She leaned forward and placed a feather in her book to mark the faded page. It was a leather-bound tome and one, I imagined, filled with great knowledge. She swung herself around and regarded me.

Despite working at a fashion magazine I don't know a whole lot about the fashion world, but, lucky for me, my great-aunt Celia is an unusually stylish woman. She was once a designer to the stars of Hollywood's Golden Era and she was never seen in anything less than an ensemble worthy of the pages of
Vogue
– 1940s
Vogue
, specifically. Tonight she was wearing an emerald-green silk dress, cut on the bias, a thin black leather belt circling her willowy waist. Partially obscuring her face was a black widow's veil, positioned at an angle over her jet-black locks. Celia did not like to be seen without her veil. Her husband, a photographer, had died many decades before and I supposed she remembered him with some fondness. Still, it seemed an eccentric habit. Beneath the mesh of the veil my great-aunt's cheekbones were high and sculpted. Her lips were painted in a blood-red lipstick and her skin was as smooth as a pearl. Which is odd, as by my calculations she should be nearly ninety. This fact had caused some suspicion from me early on in our friendship, but I'd now pretty much grown used to this odd characteristic of hers. And others.

Celia had encouraged me to apply for the position at
Pandora
after I'd been rejected by other publications. Some­how she'd just known I'd get this job.

She has a spooky way of knowing things.

‘Oh, you know I have to keep Vlad busy,' my great-aunt said, dismissing my protest with a wave of her manicured hand. ‘Where will you go tonight?' She tilted her head and waited.

I grinned. ‘The Empire State Building. We'll walk.'

‘Oh, that will be a pleasant stroll,' Celia said. ‘Do you think he'll be able to get there okay?'

I knew what she meant.

‘I think so. I feel positive about it,' I said. She'd been encouraging me to go with my instincts and my instincts told me that tonight would be a breakthrough.

‘Good. Well, that should make for a very interesting evening then. Be sure to wear something warm in case it gets chilly.'

I thought of Celia's vintage fox stole. She'd been wearing it for decades and it did rather suit her, but though she'd offered to let me borrow it I didn't feel all that comfortable wearing a whole animal around my neck. Maybe that was hypocritical of me, considering I wasn't even a vegetarian.

‘The fox stole is on the coat stand if you want it,' she said.

I thought I detected the tiniest hint of mischief in her voice. Sometimes I swear Celia knows what I'm thinking.

‘That's okay. Thanks anyway. I'd better get ready now,' I told her and started walking to my room.

‘Deus wishes to see you tonight,' she said, just as I had my hand on the doorknob.

I stopped and turned. ‘Really? Deus?' At the thought, my mouth became dry.

It had been one month since I'd last seen Deus, on the night he'd saved me from falling off the roof. It had been a complicated situation but, suffice it to say, I was pretty uncomfortable about owing him my life. Deus was very close to Celia, that was true, but still, he was
Sanguine
. You know – an undead person. Sanguine means
of blood.
The V word is very politically incorrect, and I don't recommend using it unless you'd like to get necked.

Deus was a very busy creature. And ancient. And pretty important from what I could tell. A meeting with him was no small thing. It almost certainly meant that something serious was up.

‘Do you know what he, um, wants to see me about?'

‘He says he needs to tell you in person.'

‘Oh,' I said.

‘You go ahead and have a good time with your soldier tonight. If you're back around midnight he'll see you then,' my great-aunt said.

She said this as a statement. Not a possibility. I'd be back at midnight then.

I went to my room and showered quickly in the ensuite, being careful not to wet my hair, then laid out some of my favourite clothes on my four-poster bed. My great-aunt had a stunning wardrobe and she was always giving me things to wear. I'd arrived from Gretchenville with barely the clothes on my back, and even those had not been very nice, but by now I had borrowed quite a collection of vintage dresses and tops. Incredibly, everything of Great-Aunt Celia's fitted me, even the shoes. She said it was because I was a Lucasta, like her. If surnames were not so unwaveringly patriarchal, I would have been Pandora Lucasta instead of Pandora English, as Lucasta was my mother's maiden name. Lucasta women are always the same size, Celia claimed. Lucasta women also had a few other things in common. They each had different ‘gifts', as Celia called them.

My unusual abilities sure hadn't seemed like gifts when I was growing up. My father had admonished me for having an ‘overactive imagination', and after I predicted the death of the local butcher and claimed to be in contact with him after he passed, people stopped visiting our family house. I was branded with the ‘weird kid' tag and that was even before my parents died in an accident in Egypt when I was eleven. After that I was sent to live with my well-meaning but rather strict aunt Georgia, my dad's sister. She was the local maths teacher in Gretchenville and not very popular. And she was even less tolerant than my father had been of my little ‘quirks'. Aunt Georgia even insisted on calling me Dora to save me the embarrassment of being named after the woman who was the ‘cause of all sin'. (Please don't call me Dora. I beg you.) Truthfully, I had no hope of fitting in and my whole world was turned upside down when Great-Aunt Celia, my only other relative, invited me to live with her in Manhattan a few months ago. I'd imagined I'd be looking after a geriatric. How wrong I'd been.

I'd never even met Celia before she'd sent me that letter. Now I wondered how I'd ever lived without her.

For a moment I stood in my bedroom in Celia's penthouse in a towel, my arms folded, considering my options. In only five minutes I had changed outfits three times. My date would not have cared how I was dressed, but I suppose I was nervous. Lieutenant Luke was always formally dressed. (He didn't have much choice about that.) This was also the first time we were technically going
out
together so it felt like too special an occasion to simply wear my favourite jeans and T-shirt. In the end I decided on a simple but perfectly tailored silk dress, a sapphire-blue one my great-aunt had designed in the early 1950s. It buttoned at the chest and had a pussy bow at the neck, and the hem fell to just above my knees. I wore it with a pair of drop earrings and a comfortable pair of ballet flats. The flats were good walking shoes.