Our driver, a rough-looking, very crabby older woman with sagging cheeks and a snarl etched on her face, was named Flora, which struck me as funny since that was the name of one of the nice, grandmotherly fairies in Disney’s cartoon Sleeping Beauty.
I was restless during the thirty-minute trip, anxious to get to St. Paul’s, and worried both about Jo dying in the hospital before I could find her a cure and Hunter being stuck in a church surrounded by demons. The acid bubbling in my stomach from skipping breakfast didn’t help.
I was still wearing my backpack—I’d refused to take it off and let the driver put it in the trunk. It bulged behind my back, adding to my discomfort. The only good thing about being crammed into the back of the small black car was being crammed next to Gavin. His muscular body barely fit in the cab, forcing our legs to rest against one other. As always, he smelled amazing; this time like a combination of musk and fresh grass. I tried not to be obvious that I was inhaling it, loving it, but it was hard.
As we approached Ludgate Hill, the massive dome of St. Paul’s finally appeared, floating above everything like a giant, ethereal slice of architectural heaven. Hunter’s humongous hiding place. I’d read in a guidebook on the train that at 365 feet tall, St. Paul’s was the tallest building in London until 1962. Except for St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, there is no bigger church dome on the planet.
We were still a couple of miles away, but as we got closer, I strained in my seat to get a better look. London streets, I discovered, tended to run in large circles rather than neat squares, and as such, we got to see the cathedral from all sides. From one direction, it looked like a massive train station, very long and solemn. From another, it reminded me of the United States Capitol building in Washington, D.C. And at what I guessed to be the main front entrance, it looked like a giant church with bell towers, clock towers, and Roman columns littered with statues.
We were only a few blocks from the cathedral when a loud thud echoed across the roof of the cab.
“Must ’ave hit a bird,” Flora grunted, flexing her stubby fingers. “Or a squirrel.”
“But it sounded like it was above us,” I said.
“Maybe it bounced off the grill or fell out of a tree,” Gavin suggested.
Flora growled, “Better not ’ave damaged my car.”
We sat in silence at a traffic light, probably all thinking about the poor, most likely blind, creature, when we heard honking. The driver of the car to our right made a terrible face, and then hit the gas as the light turned green, cutting us off and speeding away.
“Piss off!” Flora shouted to his tailpipe. “Honking doesn’t give you permission to drive like a beast!”
A car to our left honked as well. The driver was contorting his face and pointing at the roof of our cab before he too sped off.
“What’s he on about?” Flora asked.
“Maybe there’s still some of the bird or squirrel on the roof . . .” I said, hoping I was wrong.
“Crikey,” she answered. “Wouldn’t that just be a fine how-you-do?”
Her radio crackled: “Lady Cab number 121 . . . do . . . read?”
“This is LC 121,” Flora answered.
As we pulled up to another red light on the quiet neighborhood street, a sickening scraping reverberated above our heads—the sound of metal on metal. I couldn’t imagine a squirrel was trying to hold on with his little paws as we drove along, but since there were no low-hanging branches around, I couldn’t figure what else would make such a noise. I tilted my head to try and see the top of the car. All I saw was a curve of shiny black paint.
“I’m . . . Livery . . . to your left. Do . . . see me?” the male voice on Flora’s radio asked. We all looked over and saw a cab next to us, its driver holding his handset to his mouth. His eyes bulged from their sockets.
“Aye,” Flora answered.
“You . . . something . . . roof,” the radio reported. The scratching and static both got louder.
“What’s that?” Flora hollered into the mic. She held up her radio, pointed to it and shrugged, then motioned for the other driver to roll down his window.
He rolled his eyes, shook his head wildly, and gunned his engine through the still-red light.
“Noo . . . ooo . . . ,” the radio crackled again.
“I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” Flora said. “Everyone’s gone daft today!”
Gavin squeezed my hand and signaled for me to slide closer. “Climb over me,” he whispered.
“What?”
A tapping on the glass near my face made me turn back toward my window. A hand with wrinkled, reptilian skin and sharp claws was inching down from the roof.
I opened my mouth to scream, but Gavin planted his lips over mine. I was so shocked, I forgot how to breathe, let alone scream. He let go of my hand, and buried his hand in my hair, holding my head to keep our silent lips locked. He climbed over me, and I slid into his seat. We were still kissing as he slowly started to roll down the window. The demon hand slid in the car, Gavin kicked my door open with his foot, and abruptly pulled his face away from mine.
“Run!” he yelled.
I froze just long enough to see him grab the demon’s hand with both of his and yank. I hurled myself out of the car and ran. The cathedral was still several blocks away, peeking out from between the buildings. I glanced back. I couldn’t see Gavin, but a large, scaly creature flipped off the car toward Gavin’s side. The air was pierced by the familiar high-pitch screaming from my dreams, and the sound of glass shattering. I ran faster.
I pushed myself through the alley, emerged into the plaza in front of St. Paul’s, and bolted up the stairs toward the massive wooden doors. A breeze caught my hair just as I approached the entrance, followed by a violent tug on my backpack. I slipped down two shallow stone steps as the supernatural scream rang out again. This time, it was right in my ear.
I was still standing, so I twisted to get a better look at what had caught me. A thin sheet of crimson skin, crisscrossed with veins, obscured my view and beat at my face. Just as my brain registered what it was, a searing pain exploded across my back around the edges of the pack. The demon had a hold of me, and was dragging me backward, away from the church. I couldn’t let them have my mother’s journal, but I was no match for this nightmare creature. I wondered exactly how strong the straps on my backpack were. Would they break, or would I be lifted off the ground until I fell to my death too?
A stronger gust of wind knocked me to the ground. I was free, the backpack still securely attached. I picked myself up, threw my body up the stairs, and crashed through the doors screaming “Sanctuary!” just to be safe.
The cold air of the lobby hit me in the face like a slap. A small woman with large, round glasses and gray hair pulled into an entirely too-tight bun sat in the ticket booth, staring at me with mouth open. I smoothed my hair, ignored the blood trickling down my knee under my jeans, and walked toward her as if lunging through the door was the way all Americans entered famous cathedrals.