The Wizard Of Dark Street Part 5

"What has happened to him?" Oona cried.

Samuligan shook his head, eyebrows drawn closely together, his expression uncharacteristically bewildered.

"Is he...?" Oona began, but trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought. It felt as if someone had reached inside of her chest and was crus.h.i.+ng her heart in a tight fist. It was hard to breathe. She glanced up into the faces of the applicants, but their expressions were too difficult to read through her blurred vision. Tears welled in her eyes. This could not be happening. It was simply a bad dream. She would wake up and laugh it away. It was just not possible that the Wizard was ... was ...

She tried to force the word from her lips. "Is he...?"

"Dead?" said Samuligan. He shook his head. "I cannot say."

He wrenched the dagger from the floor. There was a sizzling sound, like bacon in a hot frying pan. With a cry of pain Samuligan flung the dagger away. It bounced across the carpet before skittering to a stop near the table. Oona pushed herself quickly to her feet, confusion blurring her thoughts. She wiped at her eyes, her gaze rolling from the smoking dagger on the floor to Samuligan, who cradled his singed hand against his chest-thin wisps of smoke floating upward from his palm.

"That is no ordinary dagger," Samuligan said, his voice like a whip. His haunting eyes scanned the room as he rose to his full height. "And this is no accident. Someone has deliberately stabbed the Wizard."

"What?" Oona said, shaking her head. She could see the Wizard's empty robes at her feet, and the slit that the dagger had made in the purple fabric. "Someone did this to him? How is that possible?"

Deacon launched himself from Oona's shoulder and landed beside the dagger, where he hastily inspected the emblem of a half-lidded eye etched into the hilt. The dagger was small and thin, with almost no cross guard to speak of, and s.h.i.+ny as polished silver.

"This blade is not used for stabbing," he said at last, and Oona saw his thick, black feathers shudder. "No, not for stabbing, but for throwing! It is the kind of dagger thrown not with the hand, but one that is thrown with the mind. There are only two daggers such as this that have ever been known to exist. They are known as Fay Mors Expugno and Fay Mors Mortis."

Isadora Iree gasped. "The Faerie Catcher and the Faerie Death!"

Samuligan fixed her with his hard gaze. "You have heard of them, Miss Iree?"

Isadora glanced around nervously. "We ... ah ... learn all about faerie lore at the Academy of Fine Young Ladies."

Deacon hopped uneasily away from the dagger before returning to Oona's shoulder. "Then, Miss Iree, you would know that both daggers were created during the Great Faerie War, by the Magicians of Old. They were weapons created with the specific purpose of either kidnapping or a.s.sa.s.sinating the most powerful highborn faeries and military captains. Nearly a hundred years after the war ended, the daggers became the very first acquisitions of the Museum of Magical History, and they have resided there-out of public view-for hundreds of years."

Oona's gaze darted toward Hector Grimsbee, whom she herself had seen standing in front of the museum that very morning. Grimsbee's face appeared inscrutable. Her heart was thrumming, and it took all of Oona's concentration to focus on what Deacon was saying. It was all very important information, she knew, but it was so hard to think straight with her uncle's empty robes lying at her feet.

Perhaps he is still alive, somehow, she thought. What was it Deacon said about kidnapping?

"The two daggers were twins," Deacon continued. "But they had very different powers. Expugno was the name of the dagger enchanted to capture and imprison. Thus, its name: the Faerie Catcher. It was intended to be used to capture highborn faeries, but was instead used only once to capture a certain high-level general in the Faerie Army. That general was Samuligan the Fay. Is that not true?"

Samuligan nodded grimly. "To be sure, it was the Expugno dagger that captured me over five hundred years ago."

"But Samuligan is now a servant of Pendulum House," Oona said, and she seized upon the faint hope that perhaps the Wizard had only been transported to another part of the house. "Do you mean that Uncle Alexander might be in Pendulum House somewhere?" she asked.

Deacon and Samuligan shared a look.

"I'm afraid not," Samuligan said. "When I was captured by the Magicians of Old, the dagger transported me to a prison: a dark place with no light at all. I later learned that that heinously dark place was, in fact, a tiny cell at the top of a great, windowless tower. But at the time it did not matter where I was, since I was no longer in my own body. For you see, not only was I locked away in the tower of eternal night, but also imprisoned within the body of a lizard. In that reptile state I was unable to use my magical powers to try and escape."

Samuligan pointed a gangly finger at the portrait of Oswald the Great and his lizard, Lulu, before continuing: "It was Oswald himself who captured me. He had a fondness for lizards, as I'm sure you all know ... and so it was a lizard that he chose as the form of my ultimate prison. How long I remained in that state, I cannot say, but one day Oswald himself came to the tower and released me from my enchantment, returning me to my original faerie form, but only after he and his fellow magicians worked such heavy magic upon me that I was forever locked into a life of service to the occupants of Pendulum House."

The story-which Oona had never heard before in its entirety-caused a s.h.i.+ver to snake down her spine. A thought occurred to her. "The Black Tower in the cemetery," she said. "You were locked in the Goblin Tower!"

Samuligan nodded. "It was the Goblin Tower, indeed."

Oona looked down at the s.h.i.+ny blade on the floor and said: "If that is the same dagger that was used on you, Samuligan, then that must mean that Uncle Alexander is locked up inside that tower right now!" A wave of frantic urgency washed over her at the realization. "We have to get him out! This instant! What are we waiting for?"

Once again, Deacon and Samuligan shared a look.

"What? What is it now?" Oona asked. Her frustration was threatening to boil over. "Why are you looking at each other?"

Reluctantly, Deacon said: "But you are forgetting that the Expugno dagger had a twin: Fay Mors Mortis. The Faerie Death. The Magicians enchanted Mortis to not only kill whomsoever it struck but to wipe the victim out of existence completely." He paused, looking gloomily down at the dagger on the floor. "The two daggers were formed from the same mold. I cannot say which of the two daggers this one is."

Oona's heart plummeted. Her knees turned to water, and suddenly Adler Iree was at her side, supporting her. His touch was cold but comforting. For a moment she thought to turn to him and bury her face in his shoulder, and there let the tears consume her, until it suddenly occurred to her that someone in this room must have done this to her uncle. It could have been anyone of them ... including Adler.

Deacon fluttered to the back of a chair, raking his black eyes across the room and echoing Oona's thought. "How someone in this room came to possess the dagger, I cannot say. But surely one of you is the attacker."

Oona stepped away from Adler, whose cloak hung from his shoulders, raggedy and frayed. The boy did not appear to notice her move away. He seemed deep in consideration. At last, he said: "If that dagger, whichever one it is, Expugno or Mortis, is thrown with the mind, then the attacker could have thrown it from anywhere. Or they could throw it again at any moment."

Lamont John-Michael Arlington Fitch III took in a startled gasp.

Deacon glanced suspiciously in the boy's direction. "No. The magics used to enchant the daggers were very complicated, even for the likes of the Magicians of Old. There were strong stipulations set on the objects in order to make them work properly. It could be thrown only once within a twenty-four-hour period, which would give it time to ... well, to recharge, you could say. The spells also stated very clearly that the daggers would work only under the following conditions, and I quote from the Encyclopedia Arcanna: *For purposes of accuracy, the throwing of either dagger must take place within a confined s.p.a.ce, such as a room. The dagger must be carried into the room by the attacker, who in turn must visually see the victim from a distance of no more than ten paces away.' Also, for fear of their own creations being used against them, the Magicians of Old enchanted the weapons so that no faerie could touch them without burning their flesh."

All eyes turned to Samuligan, who raised his hand, displaying his char-black palm. The smell of burned flesh still permeated the air.

"You mean that only someone in this room could have done this?" Oona asked.

"That is correct," Deacon said. "Someone must have brought the dagger into the room and seen the Wizard with their own eyes in order to have thrown it with their mind."

"I want to go home," said Sanora Crone, the young witch. Oona realized it was the first time she had heard the girl speak, and she sounded terribly frightened.

"No one is to go anywhere until the police have been fetched," Deacon said in his most authoritative voice.

"But Deacon, we must get to the cemetery at once," Oona said. "The only way to find out if Uncle Alexander is dead or alive is to discover if he is inside that tower."

"That will have to wait, Miss Crate," said Samuligan.

The words angered her. Oona whirled around to glare up at him, the hem of her skirt swirling about her ankles in a storm of fabric. "What are you talking about, Samuligan? Wait for what? We don't know if my uncle is dead or alive, and you tell me to wait?"

Samuligan met her gaze with a soft, pitying look. It was not unkind, and no doubt was meant as comforting, and yet it was a look that Oona had never before seen upon the face of the faerie servant. It was not mocking or amused. It was a look of utter compa.s.sion and understanding, as if he knew all too well the horrible sense of panic that was rising up in her, threatening to overwhelm her completely.

Deacon flew to her shoulder, and when he spoke, it was in a gentler voice than he had been using before. "Samuligan is correct. The Black Tower resides in the center of the cemetery, and it is now past seven o'clock. The sun has set."

Oona shook her head. "What does that have to do with...?" But she trailed off. Her mouth opened and closed several times as she realized what Deacon was talking about. Finally, she said: "Oh. Of course. No one may enter the cemetery by night."

"They would be ridiculously stupid to try," said Isadora. "And doomed to fail."

Oona glared at her, but she knew Isadora was right.

Adler dropped into a chair. "The army would certainly see to it that no one enters the City of the Dead after dark."

At the mention of the name, City of the Dead, the room seemed to grow somewhat colder and the lights slightly dimmer. But of course that might just have been Oona's imagination. It was at that moment that Lamont John-Michael Arlington Fitch III stepped meekly forward before asking: "I beg your pardon, but what is the City of the Dead, and why is it guarded by an army?"

Oona peered at the boy suspiciously. She knew absolutely nothing about the New Yorker, and for all she knew it had been he who had attacked her uncle, no matter how wide-eyed and confused he may appear. Indeed, Oona felt like accusing him on the spot. Or accusing them all. But she contained herself with the realization that that was precisely the kind of behavior employed by Inspector White. No doubt Oona's father, a far superior police inspector, would have kept his suspicions to himself until he had more proof.

Surprisingly, it was Hector Grimsbee who answered Lamont's question. In a cold, hushed stage whisper-like a man preparing to tell some horrible ghost story-he said: "The City of the Dead is what the residents of Dark Street call the cemetery after dark. It is where the ghosts of a thousand souls rise from their graves each night to dance and play amongst the headstones and mausoleums. A place where the living are not permitted to enter, and where the ghosts of a regiment of soldiers-poltergeists with s.h.i.+mmering s.h.i.+elds and glowing swords, dead for five hundred years-stand vigilant guard at the gates of the cemetery. From dusk until dawn they stand their watch, allowing no spirit out, nor any living person in. And pity the fool who attempts to cross their path, for they will soon join the dead at their play."

Lamont gazed at the blind man, disbelieving. But when he turned to the others, and they all nodded their agreement that this was, in fact, the way of it, the New York boy shuddered, and like Adler Iree, he, too, took a seat.

"And besides," Deacon added. "Even if the Wizard is locked inside the tower, you will need to discover how to get inside, and then of course there are the goblins to consider."

Oona gazed up at the goblins in the tapestries on the walls. They seemed to be mocking her with their pointy ears and penetrating gazes. She sighed heavily, feeling very tired and very angry at the same time. "Well, it seems we must wait until tomorrow to check the tower. But for tonight, there is still a way to find out if the Wizard is dead or alive."

"And how is that?" Deacon asked inquisitively.

Oona took in the applicants one by one. "We make the attacker confess."

Upon Deacon's insistence, and in spite of Oona's own reluctance, a note was sent via flame to police headquarters, informing the inspector of the crime that had been committed. Oona was certain that if Inspector White got involved, he would only make matters worse. But of course, Deacon was right. The police must be informed, and so she wrote the note herself, using all capital letters, which, because of her shaking hand, was the only way she could make her writing legible.

URGENT. WIZARD HAS BEEN ATTACKED. POSSIBLY MURDERED. BODY MISSING. COME AT ONCE. SUSPECTS STILL IN PENDULUM HOUSE. [signed] O.C.

Oona had then handed the note to Samuligan, who had in turn struck a match, set it ablaze, and placed it in the fireplace. Several minutes later a response appeared in the same spot. It explained that the inspector was out on a case and would be dispatched to Pendulum House as soon as possible. In the meantime, a police constable would be sent to secure the crime scene. No one was to be permitted to leave the premises.

"You mean we all have to wait here?" Isadora asked in alarm. "But there is a possible murderer among us. And what if they have that other dagger on them?"

Hector Grimsbee, who for some reason had declined to take a seat in a proper chair and was hunkered down on the carpet with his elbows on his knees, said: "The young lady with the melodious voice does have a point. It's quite possible that we are all in grave danger. Perhaps we should return to the safety of our own homes."

But Samuligan, who had taken on a bit of the authority figure, would not hear of it and suggested that they all retire to separate rooms until the inspector arrived. Oona thought this was an excellent plan, as it would allow her the benefit of interviewing each suspect individually.

Together, they all exited the parlor, crossing through the central antechamber, where the smells of dust, and wood, and iron, and stone collided like a soup in the belly of the manor. They ascended the grand staircase, the wood steps creaking beneath their feet as they paraded to the second floor, where the faerie servant showed the visitors to their separate rooms; he then joined Deacon and Oona in the hallway.

The various shapes in the long red carpet s.h.i.+fted constantly beneath their feet, forming new and ever-changing patterns. This in turn gave the impression that the three of them were still moving down the hall, despite the fact that they all stood in one spot. Black iron sconces threw harsh lines of light against their faces.

"Who should we begin with?" Oona asked.

"What?" Deacon said. And then, realizing what she was planning to do, he added: "You don't plan on interrogating the suspects yourself, do you?"

Oona raised an eyebrow. "What did you expect, Deacon?"

"But ... but ... do you think it a very wise thing to do?" he asked. "I mean, one of them attacked your uncle with an enchanted dagger. A dagger that has a twin, mind you. They could have the other one on them at this moment. I understand how you must feel, Miss Crate, but you promised your uncle that you would not go snooping around deadly criminals."

Oona sighed. She looked down at the moving lines on the floor, watching them twist and mutate from one unique pattern to another. Of course Deacon was right. She had indeed told her uncle that she would stay away from just such a situation, but what choice did she have? The situation had come to her, not the other way around. And she was fairly certain that Deacon was wrong about understanding how she felt. That was quite impossible, otherwise he would not be questioning her actions. She simply had to take charge of the case. It was the only way; otherwise, if she didn't occupy herself with some immediate action, then she was quite certain she would burst into tears at any minute.

Uncle Alexander is not dead, she told herself. He's only been imprisoned in the tower. We'll figure out a way to get him out tomorrow, once the sun has risen and the ghosts have returned to their graves.

But a second thought floated through her head like a cruel serpent ... its words like venom: Don't fool yourself. He's dead. Dead like your father. Dead like your mother, and your baby sister, too. Whose fault is that? Whose fault is it that the Wizard was looking for a new apprentice in the first place? This would never have happened if you hadn't broken his heart and abandoned your duties. Abandoned him. And now he's dead, too. Gone forever, and it is all your fault.

Oona could feel the tears beginning to well, but she blinked them back. Now was not the time. "I will begin with the young witch, Miss Sanora Crone," she announced.

A knocking sound came from downstairs. It was, no doubt, the police constable at the front door come to secure the crime scene. Samuligan turned toward the stairs to attend to the front door. That was good. Sanora Crone seemed quite terrified of the faerie servant-indeed, seemed terrified of just about everything-and it would be better if he were not in the room. Between Samuligan and the constable, at least the dagger downstairs would be protected.

Oona turned to the first door on the right, where a sign over the door read: CAPTAIN'S CABIN.

"Well, here we go," said Deacon. "But do be careful. Almost nothing is known of the witches of Witch Hill."

"I will be as cautious as a cat," Oona said.

Deacon bristled, squawking at her. "The phrase is either *curious as a cat' or *cautious as a fox.' Which did you mean?"

Oona smiled wryly at him-a genuine smile that somehow slipped through her cage of grief-and then removed a hairpin from her pocket. In one well-rehea.r.s.ed motion, she twisted her hair into a respectable-looking bun at the back of her head. She then squared her shoulders, feeling as ready as she would ever be, before raising her fist to knock on the door.

Knock, knock.

"Who's there?"

"Oona."

"Oona who?"

Oona and Deacon shared a look. Another smile st.i.tched its way across Oona's face. Deacon's smile showed in his eyes. Oona searched inwardly for a clever response, but when nothing came, she decided to stick with her original idea.

"It is I, Miss Oona Crate. I wanted to make sure you were all right."

The door creaked open less than an inch, and an eyeball peered out at her through the s.p.a.ce beside the doorjamb. It made a study of Oona, rolling in its socket, taking her in from head to foot.

"h.e.l.lo?" Oona said.

The eye blinked at her.

Oona was on the verge of pus.h.i.+ng the door open herself when the gap widened several more inches, and the oddest little creature she had ever seen poked its head through the opening. It gazed up at her, looking wide-eyed and utterly frightful. Oona's surprise at seeing the creature nearly sent her stumbling backward off her feet.

"Oh my!" she said. But then, realizing what she was looking at, she said: "Is that you, Miss Crone?"

It was the young witch, indeed, who stood in the doorway gazing up at Oona, her face covered in what appeared to be some sort of thick, greenish goo: a glistening, pasty substance that covered nearly every inch of her girlish face.

For an instant Oona thought: Oh dear. She's somehow turned into a goblin.

"Sorry," Sanora said earnestly. "Did I scare you? Didn't mean to, I didn't."

Her voice was high pitched and girly, and she spoke in a strange sort of c.o.c.kney accent, such as one might hear among the working cla.s.s on Dark Street, though it was certainly an original variation of the accent and one that Oona had never heard before. The goop on her face emitted a strong cinnamony, herbal smell.

"What on earth have you got all over your face?" Oona asked.

Sanora touched her cheek. "Oh, this?" she said. "It's just me Witchwhistle Beauty Cream."

Deacon shuddered, before saying: "You mean my Witchwhistle Beauty Cream."

The girl looked at him, puzzled. "No. I'm pretty sure it's mine."

Deacon shook his feathers. "No, no. You misunderstand. I was simply correcting your English. You said *me' instead of *my.'"

The girl shook her head. "Anyways. All us witches use it. It's very soothing, so it is ... and I thought it would help, right?"

"Help with what?" Oona asked.

"With me jitters," said Sanora. "It's sort of strange, you know? Being aboveground for so long, and all."