Chapter 009

  He bolted upright, gasping for air as if surfacing from the deep. The silver shield of Myrion hung high in the indigo vault, flooding the stifling chamber with a cadaverous glow. He swallowed hard; his throat felt an unbearable, searing heat, as if he were breathing scorched sand instead of air. The thought of the cool larder on the ground floor of the manor became his only salvation. Ness, who fussed over the household like a brooding hen, always left earthenware pitchers of water or milk there. The last weeks in Tyron had been merciless. A heatwave had breached even the thick walls of the Blackwood estate, radiating the warmth of noon and rendering the nights sticky, sweltering, and devoid of even a shadow of relief.

  He rose and slipped soundlessly from the chamber. He crept down the steps, pressing his bare feet against the cool stone, which soothed his fevered body. His fingers trailed along the rough texture of the walls, guiding him surely through the gloom of the corridor. In the kitchen, he fumbled in the dark until he found the cool belly of a clay pitcher. He drank voraciously, quenching the fire in his gut, and turned to head back. He was about to turn toward the stairs when the quiet, echoing murmur of conversation reached him. He changed direction. Instead of heading upstairs, he approached the main entrance, where a narrow, silvery sliver of light lay across the flagstones.

  He stopped, holding his breath. The front doors, usually bolted tight at this hour, stood ajar. A night draught slipped inside, dancing with the heavy curtain. Cautiously, placing his feet so as to make no sound, he drew closer.

  He pushed the door the barest fraction, gaining a view of the stone entrance steps. Jareth was sitting there. The steward had placed a lamp before him, its oily flame casting twitching shadows on his long face. The tall man, his white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, held a woody stem to his lips. A Bog-sceptre, Belmond recognised, smelling the characteristic, sweet-earthy scent. The servant dragged on the smoke from the Devil’s Claw leaves stuffed inside the stalk, then exhaled a thick plume into the night air. Belmond knew Jareth had this habit, but he usually hid in the corners of the stables. Tonight, he smoked ostentatiously, right on the threshold of the house.

  Beside him stood Ness, arms crossed over her ample bosom. Her chestnut hair, usually pinned in a tight bun, now fell loose over her shoulders, waving with every nervous shake of her head.

  “Jareth, for the Emperor’s sake, how many times must I tell you?!” the cook hissed, her voice sounding like a mother scolding a wayward child. “Mistress Aria explicitly forbade smoking that filth!”

  The steward exhaled smoke slowly, not even deigning to look at her.

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  “Give it a rest with the nagging, woman. It’s just an herb to soothe the nerves, nothing more. I’ve earned it, seeing as I’ve been prepping the horses till now,” he muttered bitterly, turning the glowing stalk in his fingers.

  “You old fool...” Ness wrung her hands, her floral apron rustling. “And what if that stench creeps upstairs? What if Mistress Aria catches you? You know full well she won’t pay you a penny and will make you confess where you get that weed!”

  Jareth waved a hand as if swatting away a pestering fly, and a ribbon of smoke swirled around his grey hair.

  “You’re exaggerating, as always. Better tell me, have you heard anything about the Dark Parade? Aren’t they talking about it in the city?”

  Ness fell silent. All her anger evaporated in a split second, giving way to something far worse.

  “The Dark Parade?” she whispered, and unfeigned dread rang in her voice. “Heavens, Jareth... Don’t jinx it.”

  “So, no then.”

  The man took a deep drag, his cheeks hollowed, accentuating the sharp bones of his face. He held the biting smoke in his lungs for a long moment, closing his eyes as if trying to intoxicate his fear, then slowly released a grey cloud toward the moon.

  “I spoke with Riz, the one from the sawmill. You know, the one who lost two fingers to the saw,” he rasped, his voice rough as gravel. “His boy found a pile of clothes in the copse near the old quarry the day before yesterday. Fresh. And red with blood. No bodies, not a trace of bone. The little one ran to his father, and Riz went straight to the Radmirs. Rumour has it the Circle of Fire has already arrived, and the Tyron watch is combing the woods.” He spat into the darkness. “Time to dust off the silver, woman. The bells will be needed.”

  The cook paled, her hands clutching the fabric of her apron until her knuckles turned white.

  “Great Veldran...” she moaned. “That is why... That is why they are leaving Master Bel at home.” She shook her head. “Do you think it’s the ones... the ones that have slept since the last time? Or perhaps new spasms of Nerius?”

  Jareth dragged greedily until he broke into a dry, barking cough. He wiped his mouth with the back of a rough hand.

  “That’s how I see it... But maybe it’s just some beast? Maybe a common monster that’s wandered in. Since the fishwives at the market aren’t tearing their hair out yet, maybe it’s nothing,” he tried to downplay it, but his eyes, darting into the shadows of the courtyard, betrayed otherwise. “Either way, the master and mistress know what they are doing. Better the lad stays here.”

  Jareth’s words struck Belmond with the force of a physical blow, heavier than any of his mother’s training strikes. The boy recoiled into the depths of the corridor, his heart hammering in his chest, battering painfully against his ribs. In a single instant, the chaotic fragments of the last few days clicked into place—his parents’ haste, the nervous whispers, the unexpected summoning of Uncle Darian. It wasn’t a lack of faith in his skills. It was fear. Fear of the Dark Parade, which had crawled out of the gloom once more to reap its bloody harvest of bone and flesh.

  He turned on his heel and moved back upstairs, silent as a ghost. His throat burned with living fire now, not from lack of water, but from the cold, paralysing terror that had tightened its claws around him.

  Back in his bedroom, he slid under the quilt and pulled it right up to his chin, as if the thin fabric could offer a barrier. His hand clamped convulsively around the cool metal of the pendant, seeking even a shadow of comfort, but in his head, he still heard the words about the empty, blood-soaked clothes. Outside the window, ravens croaked unnaturally loud, as if something were circling the estate, sensing the fear of its inhabitants. Sleep, when it finally came, was ragged and stifling. The boy’s mind plunged into a nightmarish vision: he saw a figure with black hair and eyes burning with an unnatural, amber glow. Around it, a circle of six ghastly silhouettes clad in black tightened, reaching out to him with greedy, corpse-pale hands.