‘The raksasa are interlopers,’ says the face in the curls of the flocked wallpaper. ‘A long time ago, before we knew better, we used our magic recklessly, and we opened the rift between our world and theirs. The raksasa had never smelt humanity before, and they craved it, terribly. We have been defending the world against that rift ever since; we use our magic to keep a barrier between our land and the rest of humanity. And when they come, we fight, because we must, and we have evolved to be so good at it! Aren’t you pleased, Bavar, to have such a legacy?’
‘No,’ I say. I pull the pillows over my head, but the words keep ringing in my ears: they were Grandfather’s words, a long time ago, when my parents were still here, and lessons were just lessons, and didn’t mean me.
I see it, that night. Over and over again, the way he fought the monster. In the moonlight, how his skin gleamed.
It’s a good vision; better than the usual by about a million per cent. And when I sleep, the dreams aren’t the same. Yes, there are monsters. There’s screaming, fear. But also there’s Bavar.
So you know, a little bit of hope. In a hopeless place.
If only he could see it.
Up close, they’re so big. The smell, the unnatural heat in the air. That almost-human face, and the burning amber eyes that are as inhuman as you could get. I can’t believe I launched myself at it.
What would Bavar have done, if I wasn’t there? Crouched, hidden in the house? Would he have let them beat him in the end? Would he have let them escape? Is that what happened, that night? I knew that house was connected with what happened to Mum and Dad. Same smells, same magic, same monsters. Now I’m wondering if his family had something to do with that night. Did someone slip up, let one of those creatures escape? Didn’t Bavar say something about a mistake? And somehow it chose our house, all the way over in the city. The thoughts trip me from sleep and won’t let me rest. Why us? Was it Dad’s research that led them to us somehow? It can’t all be a coincidence.
I remember the first time I saw Dad’s business card: Historian, Researcher into the Occult. I thought it was all legend and fable, that he travelled the world collecting stories. But it was more than that, he was finding actual monsters. Was he researching Bavar’s house? Did the monsters track him from there?
Did Dad lead them to our house?
‘No,’ I whisper, but his voice is silent in my mind and there’s a horrible falling feeling deep in my chest. I thought we were victims. Innocent. But if he somehow led them to us, then it was his fault, wasn’t it? His fault they’re gone now.
‘No,’ I say, louder. He’d never put us in danger. But also, he’d never leave a mystery alone. And if he saw that boiling sky, and he knew what it meant, he wouldn’t be able to help himself. I tussle with it all until my head aches, and then Mika bats at the door with his paw, and I let him in, and then we sit together and watch the sky brighten.
‘Another day,’ I whisper, stroking him between his ears. He lifts his head, purring. ‘I guess you’ll be out hunting, or lazing around. No school for you today, lucky thing.’
Somehow I can’t imagine Bavar will be there either.
He looks terrible.
I don’t know what I’m doing in his bedroom. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be very happy about it if he was in his right mind.
Which he’s not. Which is very unnerving.
I came straight here after school, all keen for answers, and finally plucked up the courage to use that awful bell, which does ring like the world’s about to end. Aoife smiled as she opened the door and said she’d been waiting for me. She shoved the cup in my hand, and told me Bavar needed to drink it, whether he wanted to or not, and she was very sorry to put it all on me, but she’d been trying all day and now the situation was a bit critical. She brought me up the wide stairs, past all the curious faces in all the portraits to his room, which is about the size of a football pitch, and now here I am, and I don’t know what to do.
‘Bavar?’
He stirs, and pulls himself up. ‘Angel!’
His eyes glitter, his cheeks are flushed. Aoife said it was the raksasa; apparently the poison in their claws isn’t a problem when you’re ‘seasoned’, but it can kill, if you’ve never encountered it before, hence the green stuff. Bavar spies it and wrinkles his nose, trying to get away from me. I’m perching on the edge of the bed, which is a bit like a forest-world all of its own, with its green vine curtains and about a million blankets and bedspreads. Heavy rugs overlap on the carpet, and a low fire burns in the grate. No wonder he looks hot. I push a few of the blankets on to the floor.
‘Aoife says you have to drink this,’ I say, holding the cup out.
‘There’s a rift – did you know?’ he asks, his eyes wide, like a kid who just saw snow for the first time. ‘My ancestors opened it, back in time,’ he waves his hands in the air. ‘They were playing with magic – spells from far-off lands. Then . . . then the monsters came through the rift and we made a barrier, to stop them reaching the rest of the world, but still they come, and so we fight them, we send them back.’
‘Oh.’ My mind races. I guess it makes sense. As much as any of this makes sense. ‘But drink this . . .’
He pulls a face. ‘Nope. So anyway. The rift. Grandfather says it’s growing – all the time, growing. More ’n’ more monsters’ll come, in time. So I’m’a’find it. Close it.’
‘Close the rift?’
‘Yup. It’s here somewhere,’ he gestures widely. ‘There’s a door, a hidden door. So I’mma find it, and close the rift. No more rift, no more raksasa!’ He grins.
It’s kind of wicked, that grin. Makes me smile.
‘I’ll help you,’ I say, wondering if there really is a door – a rift – that we could close.
He nods, and then turns pale. He really does look sick.
‘You have to drink this first though,’ I say, using my best commanding voice. Mum had a good one of those. I always knew, when I heard it, there’d be no arguing with that.
‘Why?’ he complains, scowling at it.
‘It’s . . . finding-hidden-door juice.’
His face brightens. ‘Just what we need!’
‘Yes.’
‘You have some too.’
Oh my goodness.
‘OK.’
I take a mouthful. It’s about as vile as a thing can be, and it stays there, in my mouth, like a living animal. I take a breath through my nose, and swallow.
‘There. Now you,’ I say, trying not to retch. ‘Drink it all, and we’ll find this door . . .’
He tips his head back and drinks, and he trusts me, which makes a little rush of something go through me, and I don’t know if I just did the right thing, but I know Aoife was pretty desperate about him, and I’m pretty sure he wants to live, after all.
He gasps, falling back on to his pillows.
‘Bavar?’ I lean forward. ‘Are you OK?’
‘That’s terrible,’ he mutters.
‘I know! I’m sorry; Aoife said you needed it . . .’
‘Probably.’ He drags himself up, shuddering. ‘I don’t know why they have to make these things taste so disgusting though. Why can’t they be like chocolate, or ice cream? Why do they always have to taste like toads?’
‘You’ve had many of these things? You’ve eaten toads?’
‘Had a few mishaps in the woods over the years.’ He grimaces. ‘And no, I haven’t eaten toads. I reckon they’d taste like that though –’ he gestures at the cup – ‘Pretty vile . . .’
He looks a little less sick, I realize. Already, he’s a better colour. I’m so relieved, I almost don’t want to hassle him about the big stuff.
Almost.