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  Hazel knew she had no choice, so with the trepidation of a condemned criminal approaching the chopping block, she also stepped into the latrine. Matter squelched under her boots as she crouched down.

  Titus’s voice echoed up to her; it sounded a long way down. ‘Come on, slowcoach! It’s not as bad when you get to the bottom – ha! If you’ll pardon the expression!’

  Hazel readied herself as Bramley dashed from one shoulder to the next, chewing frantically on his tail.

  ‘Wait, Hazel . . . No, please! Think about what you’re doing . . . I’ll never be clean again, my nose will never recover, my fur will fall out, I just know it . . .’

  Spreading her arms to better keep balance, she shuffled over the edge of the slope and began to slide down on her heels. Bramley grabbed her ear but Hazel didn’t feel it. She gave a little scream as her boots skittered on the smooth and slimy stones. Down she went, somehow keeping her balance even as her descent got faster.

  She wanted to slow down, but just couldn’t bring herself to touch the slope with her bare hands. The smell . . . oh, the smell! Below she glimpsed green water and dark, glistening walls. Something, perhaps a loose stone or a crack, tripped her and Hazel pitched headfirst with her arms wheeling at her sides.

  ‘Tituuuus!’

  Hard stone and brackish water rushed up to meet her. She threw up her hands, closed her eyes and prepared for impact. Strong arms caught and pulled her into an embrace; Hazel smelt warm fabric and tobacco smoke.

  ‘All right, girl,’ Titus said. ‘I’ve got you.’

  Breathless, Hazel emerged from the folds of Titus’s coat. ‘I’m blaming you for that, but thanks for catching me.’

  They were on a narrow stone ledge next to a conduit filled with slow-flowing water. Shreds of evil-smelling mist drifted over the surface. The only light in the tunnel came from the room of easement high above. Bramley squeaked as a black rat emerged from a gap between the bricks, regarded them curiously, then slipped into the water.

  ‘The castle sewer,’ Titus said. ‘A home from home for a slop-sprite like you. We’re safe now. Just let your eyes adjust, and then we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘It’s my nose I want to adjust,’ Bramley said between little retches of disgust.

  ‘Don’t you dare be sick in my hair,’ Hazel said, doing her best to breathe only through her mouth.

  ‘Stop griping, you two. Hazel – you have the book? Let me see.’

  Hazel took the Necronomicon from her trousers and handed it to him. Titus examined the cover and then opened it to the title page. ‘This is it. Look here . . .’

  ‘I can’t read the words.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Titus said. ‘Petrov was Swedish. But it says: The Necronomicon. Being a Truthful Account of a Far Traveller into the Long Reaches of the Underworld. As recorded by Lars Göran Petrov.’

  Hazel stared in wonder at the bold gothic script and for a moment she forgot the darkness, even the appalling smell, and laughed. ‘And we got it right from under their noses!’

  ‘We’re one step closer,’ Titus said. ‘Look – there’s a faint light down there. Might be our way out. Follow me, and don’t slip into the water because I won’t be going in after you.’

  Hazel followed, keeping as close to the wall as she could without actually touching it. The foetid odour faded, but she couldn’t tell if it was because they were reaching cleaner air, or because she was getting used to it.

  Titus stopped so unexpectedly that Hazel ran into the back of him. ‘I am coming with you, you know. Into the Underworld.’

  ‘Titus,’ she said, regaining her balance. ‘I know you want to protect me, and I . . . I appreciate it. But I’ll not drag you into any more danger. That’s a path for me to take alone.’

  ‘Alone?’ Bramley squeaked, ‘But you’ll take me, won’t you?’

  Hazel plucked him from her hair. ‘I’ve been thinking about this whole thing, especially now that I’m so close, and I’ve come to a decision. I don’t want either of you coming with me. It’s too dangerous, and you’ve already risked so much on my behalf.’ She took a deep breath. ‘So, there you have it. I’m going on my own. Decision made.’

  Bramley and Titus exchanged a look, then stared angrily back at her.

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Bramley snapped. ‘Leave me behind? How dare you even think such a thing?’

  ‘Out of the bloody question,’ Titus added.

  Hazel opened her mouth to protest but Titus interrupted. ‘You either agree to let us come with you, or we won’t tell you how you can obtain the demon blood needed to draw the magic circle.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘We’re coming with you,’ Bramley said. ‘And it’s two against one, so there.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Titus said. ‘We started this story together, and we’ll finish it together, no matter how it ends.’ And with that final statement he walked on towards a distant circle of light, leaving Hazel smiling with relief.

  32

  BACK TO THE LAIR . . .

  Witches slay cattle, blast the produce of the earth,

  the fruit of the trees, the grape from the vine.

  Crimes, Heresies and Misdemeanours by Sir Stefan de Crouché

  It was a long walk back to the Bannered Mare, and by the time the companions dragged themselves up the back steps the sun was crowning the rooftops and the city was beginning to stir.

  Hazel was exhausted and wanted to sleep for a week – but not before she had washed. She found the tavern bath in the laundry room, filled it with pump water which she warmed with gentle blasts of magic, and scrubbed away the filth and stink of the sewer.

  Feeling a hundred times better but hardly able to keep her eyes open, she got dressed and stumbled back to her room. Bramley was fast asleep under a fold of the bedclothes. Titus sat at the table poring over the book.

  ‘Let me see,’ she muttered, shuffling towards him.

  ‘You need to sleep,’ Titus said. ‘Bed. Now.’

  ‘I want to read it . . .’

  Titus snapped the book closed. ‘Fluent in Swedish, are you? No? Thought not. Bed.’

  With uncharacteristic obedience, Hazel scooped up her sleeping familiar and crawled under the covers.

  A persistent scratching sound roused her from sleep. She stretched, yawned and opened her eyes. Golden sunlight fell on Titus, who was still sitting at the table writing notes with a quill. His hair was loose, his coat crumpled – his usual scruffiness had returned.

  ‘What time is it?’ she said.

  Titus didn’t look up. ‘About two in the afternoon.’

  ‘Huh. But what day? I feel like I’ve slept for a week.’

  ‘Same day,’ Bramley said from his perch on the inkpot. ‘There’s bacon and eggs over there.’

  Famished, Hazel grabbed the plate and joined them by the window. The Necronomicon lay open on the table. Dense print covered its pages and the margins were filled with Titus’s notes and translations.

  ‘Does it tell us what we need to know?’ Hazel’s heart fluttered with trepidation. ‘Does it tell us how to open the gate?’

  ‘It does. It’s all here – a diagram of the magic circle, instructions on where to place it, and –’ he flipped back a few pages – ‘see this? That’s the spell that opens the gate.’

  Hazel peered closer. Inside a border adorned with skulls and bones was a short block of text written in ugly, spiky letters.

  ‘This spell is written in the language of the demons,’ Titus said, turning his dark eyes on to her. ‘And in order for it to work the recitation must be exact – every word pronounced with absolute precision.’

  ‘All right,’ Hazel said, taken aback by the vehemence in his voice. ‘So we’ll be careful . . .’

  ‘You don’t understand. I have a loose grasp of their hideous tongue, but not enough to be able to speak it with the accuracy this spell demands.’

  ‘Titus told me that if we say the spell incorrectly the results could be catastrophic,’ Bramley
said, hopping off the inkpot and clambering up to Hazel’s shoulder. ‘We might open a gate that lets demons into our world.’

  Hazel slumped on to the bed. ‘I don’t want that.’

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ Titus said. ‘But you see the problem? None of us can read the spell without creating enormous risk to others.’

  Bramley nuzzled Hazel’s neck reassuringly. ‘But we know a man who can.’

  ‘You don’t mean . . . ?’ Hazel’s eyes widened. ‘Murrell?’

  Titus shrugged. ‘Who else? He’s the only man alive who speaks the language well enough to open a gate. We know this because we saw him do it at Rivenpike.’

  ‘But he’s locked up, and due to be executed this weekend,’ Hazel said, throwing her hands up in despair.

  ‘We know,’ Bramley said, ‘but while you’ve been snoring we’ve come up with a plan.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Titus said. ‘Now, the Necronomicon says that the magic circle must be drawn “in a place steeped in misery and death”. And look here.’ He held up a poster adorned with a striking picture of a sneering Murrell.

  ‘It’s an advertisement for the Execution Pageant,’ Hazel said.

  ‘Yes, and they’re being delivered by the Order all over the neighbourhood. I picked this up from the taproom downstairs. It says that Murrell is to be executed in the arena on Tower Hill.’ Titus leaned forward. ‘I’ve been there many times over the years, and there are tiers of seats facing a platform in the middle where the condemned meet their fate.’

  ‘So?’ Hazel said, wishing he’d get to the point.

  ‘So, if I can copy the magic circle under the platform, and you can convince Murrell to recite the spell during his own execution, then he might be able to open the gate into the Underworld.’

  Hazel stared at him and then slowly said, ‘I don’t know whether it’s the most brilliant or the most foolhardy idea I’ve ever heard.’

  ‘A bit of both I think,’ Titus replied. ‘Bramley and I have been racking our brains, and frankly, it’s the only thing we think has any hope of working.’

  ‘Murrell is the only man who can recite the spell – we need him to do it,’ Bramley said. ‘But rescuing him from the Island is impossible, so we wait for the Witch Hunters to bring him to us, at the Pageant, and over the magic circle.’

  ‘But how can I convince Murrell to help us at his own execution?’

  ‘Oh, he’ll help us all right,’ Titus smiled. ‘That’s the beauty of the whole idea: creating a demon gate at his own execution is Murrell’s best – hell, his only – chance of escape.’

  ‘Imagine it, Hazel,’ Bramley said. ‘Swirling magic, the ground opening up beneath the pyre . . . It’ll be chaos, pandemonium. The Witch Hunters will flee in terror – imagine the look on Hopkins’ face! – and we can use the distraction to go through the gate.’

  The more Hazel thought about the idea the more sense it made. ‘And Murrell?’

  Titus waved his hand. ‘Who cares? He can make his getaway and go where he wants.’

  ‘There’s still the matter of getting the demon blood, of course,’ Bramley said.

  ‘But we have a plan for that too,’ Titus said, and he told Hazel about the trip to the Guild Master, the plague doctor murdered and buried in his own garden, and the demon using his uniform as a disguise. ‘So I track down this demon, kill it, and harvest its blood.’

  ‘Which we can use for the magic circle,’ Hazel breathed.

  ‘Exactly. Your job is to get Murrell to help. Does he know about his execution?’

  ‘He didn’t when I left him.’

  ‘You’ll have to tell him then.’ Titus took out a clasp knife, cut the spell page from the book and handed it to Hazel. ‘And give him this.’

  Hazel took it and said, ‘I’m going back, aren’t I?’

  Titus nodded. ‘If you want your mother safe, then yes, I’m afraid so.’

  Hazel felt the strength drain out of her; the idea of returning to the Order and immersing herself in the bleakness of their world was almost too much to bear.

  ‘Listen, Hazel,’ Titus said gently. ‘There’s no shame in changing your mind. Your mother would understand.’

  Hazel pictured her mother’s smile and imagined the joy at seeing it again. She straightened her spine. ‘I’m going back.’

  ‘And this time I’m coming with you,’ Bramley said.

  ‘Very well. Don’t worry about that demon either,’ Titus growled. ‘It’ll be no match for me.’

  Hazel looked down at her hands. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said, feeling a tremor in her voice. ‘You’ve both done so much . . .’

  ‘No tears, foolish girl!’ Titus said. ‘Your mother is depending on us, so now is the time for action. The first thing to do is get you back inside the Tower . . .’

  33

  . . . WHERE THE DRAGONS RESIDE

  ‘The rebels comprise of witches, Wielders, and soldiers still loyal

  to dead King Charles. We underestimate them at our peril.’

  General Charles Fleetwood

  A few hours later, under a sweltering mid-afternoon sun, Hazel once again approached the outer walls of the Tower of London.

  ‘Remember to act confused, but be you,’ Bramley whispered from deep in her hair. ‘You as in William, that is. The main thing is we want them to know that Murrell’s magical hold over you has gone.’

  Making sure she looked suitably dishevelled, Hazel approached the guards. They recognized her immediately. ‘It’s him!’ one cried, grabbing his halberd. ‘The General’s apprentice, the one who was bewitched.’

  People nearby looked alarmed and began to back away. The other guard was already pointing his matchlock at Hazel, and the look of terror on his face made her think he was going to shoot her dead in the street. ‘Don’t you move,’ he commanded.

  Hazel stopped and held her hands out in front of her. ‘Please, I’m better now—’

  ‘Quiet, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.’

  ‘He’s terrified,’ Bramley squeaked. ‘And I don’t like the way his hands are shaking . . .’

  ‘All right, Ned,’ the other guard said. ‘Go and fetch the General. Quick, now.’ He approached Hazel with his halberd lowered. ‘As for you, boy, get in the guardhouse until it’s decided what’s to be done.’

  Hazel nodded and slowly made her way to the little stone guardhouse built into the gate. As soon as she was inside, the guard locked the door behind her. She sat at the table, trying to catch her breath: that guard had been only a whisker away from killing her.

  ‘That was close,’ Bramley said. ‘Now you need to convince the General you’re back to being you.’

  Hazel waited, watching dust motes dance in the sunlight. News of my return will spread, watchful Thorn will get wind of it and he’ll come and find me, she thought. Then I pass my message on to Murrell

  She flinched as the door opened. Light streamed in, followed by Hopkins, Grimstone, and three wary guards who took up position behind her. Grimstone barred the door, one hand resting on the butt of his pistol. Hopkins sat opposite and held her gaze for an uncomfortably long time.

  ‘I’ve come back, General,’ Hazel said.

  ‘I can see that,’ Hopkins said quietly. ‘But who are you really? Are you Apprentice Lowe? Or are you a puppet of Murrell’s, returned to cause mischief in my house?’

  ‘It’s me, I promise,’ Hazel said, adding a pleading note to her voice. ‘His power over me, it’s gone ... I am myself again.’

  Hopkins took his curved blade from his pocket and tapped it on the table. ‘William, I saw you jump with what seemed like suicidal intent into the river. How can I be sure a spell powerful enough to compel you to do such a thing has simply . . . faded away?’

  ‘The words Murrell spoke, the lies he told to compel me to jump – I don’t hear them any more.’ Hazel looked down as if ashamed. ‘I wanted so much to show you I could succeed but all I’ve done is let you down. I’m sorry, General.’
/>
  ‘I think you’d better tell me what happened, William,’ Hopkins said. ‘From the moment you went in to see him.’

  Hazel thought back to the story that she, Titus and Bramley had concocted back at the Bannered Mare and began to speak, haltingly, with pauses and frowns, all the while careful to ensure it didn’t sound rehearsed.

  Hopkins and Grimstone listened as she told them about how Murrell had spoken to her in his cell; about the overwhelming urge to jump in the river; about the choking water and pulling tide, and how her desire to live had driven her to swim for shore; about wandering confused through the streets, yet slowly making her way back to the Tower to be among her people again.

  ‘Well, Grimstone?’ Hopkins said when she’d finished. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘He appears to be back to normal – lucid, clear-eyed, calm.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Hopkins said, putting the blade back in his pocket.

  Hazel’s burgeoning relief withered and died when Grimstone added, ‘But I’ve yet to fulfil my check on his story, General. The Spymaster is still insisting we go through that whole rigmarole.’

  Of course! Hazel thought, feeling Bramley stiffen in fear. How could I have been so careless as to forget that?

  ‘What’s taking so long, Grimstone?’ Hopkins snapped.

  ‘I’m afraid the record office in Putney has suffered a fire and most of the registers have been destroyed. My administrators are sifting through the remains, but it will take time. In the interim we can move William to a cell until we’ve verified his story.’

  Grimstone nodded to the guards, who moved in to grab Hazel’s arms. A thrill of panic ran through her – she couldn’t afford to get locked up. But if I fight my way out now I’ll lose my chance of being at Murrell’s execution and entering the demon gate . . .