The Book of Beasts Read online

  ‘Did the beast swallow you when the wave fell?’ she demanded, looking suspiciously out to sea.

  Matt felt an odd mix of pleasure and discomfort from Carik’s touch.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, laughing for the first time in ages. ‘I was its lunch.’

  EIGHT

  London

  Present Day

  One of the world’s most powerful Guardians, second only to Matt and Em’s grandfather Renard, Henrietta de Court was an elegant woman with an extensive knowledge of poisons and a passion for exquisite hats. On this particular morning she was wearing a flouncy feathery one that draped over her high forehead.

  She had in her possession a polished wooden cane with a carved peryton at its hilt and an explosive secret. She was running late for a meeting with Sir Charles in the Council of Guardian chambers – a confrontation, if she were to be honest, that she’d been putting off for years.

  The Council of Guardians had been in existence ever since the formation of the Royal Academy in the 1760s had given English Animare such as Sir Joshua Reynolds and Thomas Gainsborough a legitimate means of support for their imaginative capabilities. The Guardians had constructed their original Council Chamber beneath the Foundling’s Hospital in Bloomsbury, where the Academy had held its first show of work by its members. Up until then, Guardians and Animare in England had been only loosely bound to each other, left to live very much on their own wits, and only formally gathering for two important, timeless rituals: the binding of an Animare whose powers had either grown too strong or were out of control, and the lifelong union of an Animare to his or her Guardian. More than two hundred and fifty years later, the Guardians had Councils all over the world. The protection of Animare and their valuable talents had remained strong in all that time.

  Until now.

  Henrietta tutted. Not only was she late, she needed to make a detour to the rare-book library on the third floor before the meeting. Marching towards the entrance to the Royal Academy at Burlington House, she saw the queue waiting to clear security and made a quick decision. Dangerous times called for dangerous actions. Rules be damned.

  A middle-aged couple looking at a map of the London Underground stood in front of her. Henrietta put her hand on the man’s shoulder, sensing instantly that he was hungry and annoyed about waiting in yet another queue. She gently pushed a series of images into his mind – scones topped with jam and clotted cream, steaming cups of tea. His wife blinked a couple of times as Henrietta filled her mind with a fog of confusion.

  ‘The tea shop across the way has such delicious treats,’ Henrietta murmured.

  The man’s expression cleared. ‘I think a cuppa is in order,’ he said, pulling his wife towards the door. Henrietta smiled as they hurried quickly out of the courtyard to the street.

  Henrietta worked through the rest of the people more quickly, tickling minds with compassion for the woman in the flouncy hat and an overwhelming desire to let her into the building as quickly as possible. One by one, the queue parted and Henrietta glided to the front.

  She avoided the busy lift and marched up the wide stairs to the second floor, the tip of her cane tapping the marble steps like a claw. Ignoring the tourists and one or two artists at work in front of paintings, she carried on through the main hall to a smaller gallery and the entrance to the rare-book library. Turning left at the end of the gallery, Henrietta walked into a narrow anteroom where she stopped at the security desk.

  A girl with short blond hair sat behind the desk. She stood, quickly skimming the names on her list of scholars expected to use the private reading room that day.

  ‘We’re not open yet, Professor de Court,’ she said apologetically, ‘and I don’t believe I have your name on our list.’

  ‘Really, Lucy,’ said Henrietta in her most irritable voice, ‘is this necessary?’

  Turning a little pink, the receptionist turned to pick up her phone. ‘Let me double-check with Sir Charles,’ she said.

  Henrietta sighed, tapping her cane on the floor. She knew the routine. She’d have to wait for someone from Sir Charles’s office to come down and escort her to a table. There, she would be required to fill out a form (in triplicate) and wait for her ID to be checked (twice). And then she’d have to wait for the book she wanted to be delivered to her table, where someone would watch over her as she pulled on the necessary white gloves before turning its delicate pages.

  She didn’t have time for such bureaucratic nonsense this morning and she certainly didn’t want so much attention called to her actions.

  For the second time in less than an hour, Henrietta broke the rules. She placed her hand gently on the receptionist’s arm and smiled.

  Seconds later, using Lucy’s ID, the lock on the double glass doors clicked and popped open with a hiss. Henrietta hooked the peryton cane over her forearm and walked sure-footed into the rare-book library.

  NINE

  Before the twenty-first century, the rare books housed in this room had been stored behind sliding glass on the original mahogany shelves, and accessed with a key. Although admission was limited to authorized scholars and anyone on the Council of Guardians, the parchment and the inks in the books had slowly been losing the battle with time and temperature. Henrietta had insisted that Sir Charles upgrade the environment for these manuscripts, or risk being challenged for his leadership of the Council.

  She had no intention of removing him from his position until the time was right, but he was not to know that.

  So now the rare books and ancient manuscripts were housed in climate-controlled pods behind thick glass on shelves like conveyer belts, allowing the books to be viewed with as little human contact and exposure to the elements as possible.

  Henrietta went directly to the control panel, and scanned in the receptionist’s ID. When access was granted, she had about two minutes to find what she was looking for before Lucy’s ID would be flagged in Sir Charles’s office and he’d send someone to check what the receptionist was doing in the room without having filed the necessary paperwork.

  Punching in the code she’d memorized, Henrietta stepped back and watched the shelves shift, turn and orbit the room as if she were watching the gears and inner workings of a great mechanical monster. Once the computer located the book, its shelf shifted forward and the individual case dropped into a tiny transparent lift.

  Henrietta kept one eye on her watch as the shelves turned. After two minutes, the small doors opened before her. Slipping on a pair of white gloves, she lifted the hermetically sealed container to the nearest table.

  Inside the container was a leather-bound pocket-sized book of William Blake’s children’s poems. Henrietta checked her watch. Two minutes had elapsed. Someone would already be on their way. Carefully opening the book, Henrietta slipped her fingers behind the wrinkled spine, grasped a coin between her fingers and tugged it out of its hiding place.

  She’d always thought Malcolm would be at her side when she asserted her leadership at the Council table. Having finally come to terms with his disappearance, she had decided to forge ahead.

  She admired the medallion’s craftsmanship. There was no reason to leave it hidden any longer.

  Outside in the anteroom she could hear the receptionist’s voice.

  ‘I’m quite sure no one has entered the room this morning. You must have been alerted in error.’

  Henrietta slipped the coin under the brim of her hat. Swiftly replacing the book, she closed the container and pushed it back into the chute. She couldn’t activate the mechanics of the stacks without the noise giving away her presence, so she left it where it was.

  She folded her not-so-supple body as well as she could under a study carrel just as the library door opened. And just as she spotted her cane, still propped against the table she’d been working at.

  ‘I told you, no one has come into the library this morning,’ said the receptionist, hands on her hips, glaring at the guard Sir Charles had sent to check on the activation
of the stacks.

  ‘Just doing my job, miss.’

  Henrietta inhaled and calmed her mind. It was inevitable that the guard would spot her cane. He was trained for moments like this. She could ill afford the time to explain herself.

  Closing her eyes, Henrietta put herself in Lucy’s head again.

  I’m so sorry, ma chérie.

  Lucy fainted, swooning into the arms of the surprised guard.

  Somewhere in between more staff rushing in to assist and the medics arriving, Henrietta emerged from beneath the carrel, lifted her cane and slipped away.

  TEN

  Auchinmurn Isle

  The Middle Ages

  Carik kicked at a clod of sand still freckled with yellow light from the raft. She frowned at Matt. ‘That was an illumination?’

  Matt nodded, scrambling to his feet. ‘It was the only way to protect myself from the wave. There’s no more time to explain.’ He gazed up at the hillside, at the motionless figure in orange slumped against the tree. ‘We need to help Jeannie.’

  A fierce wind gusted along the shore, and for a second the sun disappeared in darkness again. Matt looked up. Carik gasped and stepped closer to Solon.

  A shadowy black peryton – its body like obsidian and its wings like crushed velvet – hovered high above Era Mina. Malcolm sat astride the beast’s fiery red saddle. He was no longer hooded but was wearing polished black leather armour. His shoulder plates were shaped like the peryton’s wings and a silver helix shimmered on his breast. An embroidered cover fluttered out behind the saddle, like yellow flames. Where the white peryton’s antlers were thick and covered in a layer of fur, the black peryton’s tines were translucent. A cloaked figure sat bundled up in front of Malcolm.

  ‘It’s my dad!’ said Matt in horror. ‘And he has someone else with him!’

  ‘It’s too far away for me to tell who it is,’ said Solon in frustration.

  ‘These will help.’ Matt handed over opera glasses.

  Solon studied the opera glasses curiously, then lifted them to his eyes. Almost instantly, he dropped them to the sand with an exclamation.

  ‘It’s a special kind of glass,’ said Matt, grinning.

  Even in the tension of the moment, Solon’s face was a picture of astonishment. ‘Not an enchantment?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said Matt. ‘Science.’

  Solon picked up the glasses and looked again. He hissed through his teeth and lowered them quickly.

  ‘Your father’s captive is the Abbot,’ he said, and shoved the glasses into Matt’s hands.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ Matt said, grimacing with guilt. ‘This is all my fault.’

  Carik fitted an arrow into her bow and pointed it at Matt’s chest. ‘This boy has brought evil here,’ she said. ‘We should kill him now.’

  Matt’s heart thumped like a drum. Carik was right. If he hadn’t been in such a frenzy to bring his dad back in time to rescue Em and his mum, Malcolm would never have been able to seize the opportunity to implement a plan that had been festering in his mind for years.

  Matt tried inspiriting her, breaking up her anger before she let her arrow fly. ‘You don’t want to hurt me, Carik—’

  ‘Do not try your enchantments on me,’ she interrupted with a hiss, drawing back her bow arm. Matt held his breath.

  Solon rested his hand on Carik’s arm, keeping it there until she reluctantly lowered her bow. Matt breathed again.

  Malcolm and the peryton still hovered high above them.

  ‘The Abbot is the Guardian of my master, Brother Renard,’ said Solon. ‘Brother Renard’s mind is fragile. He needs the Abbot to keep him calm, to prevent him from animating unwittingly. If your father has the Abbot, what has become of my master?’

  Picking up the opera glasses, Matt looked at his dad circling in and out of the scudding clouds above the bay. His mouth went dry.

  Malcolm Calder was a disturbing sight. His head was bare, but even the long dark curls couldn’t hide his grotesque face. His eyes were blazing with a passion Matt found almost as frightening as the raw red flesh of his cheek and the exposed white bone of his jaw, his unfinished face a consequence of Matt’s hasty unbinding.

  ‘The black peryton looks – ghostly,’ said Matt, swallowing. ‘Like my father is riding a spectre.’

  Solon yanked his sword from the hard sand. ‘The legend states that the white peryton abandoned his brother in the icy north, and all that remains on these islands is the black beast’s shadow. Only a descendant of Albion can bring forth both beasts. He was the First Animare. The man who started The Book of Beasts. The man who founded the monastery to protect our kind.’

  Matt remembered how he and Em had called the white peryton to help them. If the perytons only responded to descendants of this Albion, he and Em must be his descendants. And what about Jeannie? She had controlled the wave. Was she connected to the islands and the perytons in the same way?

  Matt’s heart twisted as he looked up the hillside towards Jeannie, curled in an awkward position by the tree, her legs bent underneath her. Using the opera glasses again, Matt could just see the rise and fall of her chest against the orange safety vest.

  She’ll be OK, he told himself fiercely. But he needed to do something, to confront his father and free the Abbot. That meant a weapon of some kind – but what? What could he draw on? He shoved his hands into his damp pockets. He didn’t have any paper left.

  His dad and the black peryton dropped closer, gusting cold air across the beach.

  ‘Find a weapon, Matt!’ shouted Solon, raising his sword.

  Matt felt a surge of brutality in the air; a cruelty so dreadful it slammed into him, knocking him to his knees. He was no longer thinking about drawing.

  ‘My father is about to do something terrible,’ he said as evenly as he could. He started running up the beach. ‘I can feel it. We need to get Jeannie away from here.’

  ‘No!’ cried Solon in anguish.

  Matt stumbled at Solon’s shout. He turned back and looked up.

  The Abbot was tumbling like Icarus towards the sea.

  ELEVEN

  Royal Academy

  London

  Present Day

  When Henrietta de Court entered the suite of private rooms belonging to the Council of Guardians on the second floor of the Royal Academy, the room was empty, Sir Charles having gone to see for himself that all was well in the rare-book library. She was alone.

  Seating herself at the head of the long mahogany table that filled the room, Henrietta unpinned her hat, setting it on the chair next to her. She moved her pearl hatpin between her long fingers for a few seconds, then stabbed it through the elegant chignon on the nape of her neck lest she lose it.

  The Council Chamber’s high walls were its most striking feature, adorned as they were with images of the most fantastic beasts ever imagined. A snake-like basilisk whose gaze was fatal. A kraken with monstrous tentacles that could sink a hundred ships. Sirens with inspiriting abilities as powerful as hers. Then there were selkies and sea serpents, wraiths and hydras, gorgons and griffins. All the creatures immortalized here had been trapped in Hollow Earth ever since the monks of Auchinmurn had drawn them into a sacred illuminated manuscript and locked them away from the uncomprehending eyes of a disbelieving world. One day, they would be free again. That day was coming with or without her son’s help: Henrietta could feel it.

  She gazed thoughtfully across the table at the medieval tapestry covering the far wall. Known as The Battle for Era Mina, it depicted the Grendel, an ape-like monster, rising out of a dark swamp to devour the dead after a terrible battle. The central figure, a hooded monk draped in dark velvet, was riding a black stallion, exhorting ghastly troops of skeletons to do his bidding. It was awe-inspiring in its detail, its ferocity and its glowing jewel-like colours. Even more remarkable was the fact that it had been woven more than seven hundred years earlier, by the monks of Auchinmurn.

  There was still no sign of Sir Charles. To
pass the time, Henrietta left the table to study the tapestry in more detail.

  The wool and silk threads criss-crossed in vibrant reds, blues and golds as it told its gory tale. Tapestries such as this one were like news reports for an event, the means by which a community recorded its history before cameras or mobile phones or mass-produced books. With the tip of her finger, Henrietta traced a single silk thread along the edge of the great stitched cloth, stopping to admire the complex pattern that had captured the drama of the battle.

  Hearing voices in the outer office, Henrietta made to return to the table. As she lifted her fingers from the tapestry, the threads she had been tracing began to glow, faintly at first but then more brightly. Henrietta looked at her hand. It was clean and appeared normal. Was this her doing?

  Another thread lit up, and another, and another. Soon the entire tapestry was illuminated as if it had been plugged in to the mains; an electrified Tube map with every thread a pulsing track.

  Henrietta ran to the double doors and locked them before Sir Charles could come in. She stood back and watched the tapestry in awe.

  The illuminated threads, first one at a time and then in patterns of three, four and five from every section of the narrative, unravelled, changing routes, taking new directions and twisting into new patterns as the entire tapestry was re-woven in front of Henrietta’s eyes. In their new position, all the threads blazed, and then were dim again. The history that the tapestry was depicting had changed.

  Henrietta stood absolutely still, absorbing every new detail. When her eyes rested on the imposing figure at the centre of the picture, she laughed aloud, and clapped her hands in rapturous applause.

  She had just witnessed one of the most spectacular feats of animation ever accomplished. It would change everything. Everything. She didn’t need Sir Charles or the Council of Guardians any more. It was time to move from the shadows into the light.

  To give her only son the power he deserved.