Page 70 of The Little Shop of Curiosities Cursed Object 1, The Music Box

I turn towards the front door, but as I do, a thunderous banging shakes it in its hinges.

“Police, open up! We have a warrant for Cordelia Crawshanks.”

The banging continues, the inelegant sound of a ham fist pounding against the wood. Whyte certainly moves quickly, and it would seem I am out of time. Unable to leave through the front door, there is only one option left to me. Glancing back over my shoulder, I see my brother slowly climbing to his feet as Ichabod helps Constance up.

Holding Cornelius’ gaze, I reach for my magic.

A swirl of hazy purple witchsmoke winds around me and the foyer and its occupants disappear in a blur. When I rematerialise, I’m standing on a street corner in the pale rays of dawn.

Further down, I can see a police carriage waiting on the cobbles outside the house, easily identified by its heavily barred window and locks on the rear door. There are two police constables, one hammering on the door and the other stood beside a familiar figure.

I can’t help the smile of absolute glee when I see Whyte. As elegantly dressed as usual with an expensive overcoat and top hat, his lower face is covered by the beginnings of a beard, which he’s obviously cultivating in order to hide the damage I did to his face. But it really doesn’t hide a thing. His ruined mouth is misshapen and lopsided, fixed in a rictus grimace. No longer pretty, his face at least now reflects the ugliness of his soul.

If he has one.

We’ll find out soon enough. But not yet. There are some other gentlemen who are further up the list than Whyte. I want him to sweat. I want him to feel the dread and impotent fear as each of his companions are picked off from the pack one by one. I want him to know death is coming for him.

I am coming for him.

16

Ijolt from my dream, my head pulsing with pain.

I close my eyes again and press my palm to my forehead, hoping the pressure will somehow dull the discomfort. No such luck. Glancing across at my phone on the bedside table, I tap the screen and groan at the time.

There’s no way I’m going back to sleep regardless of the early hour. I push the covers from my body, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and gingerly sit upright. My head protests the change of equilibrium with an intense throb.

Swallowing past the dryness in my mouth, I breathe slowly through the pain. This headache is too strong to pass on its own. I climb out of bed like an old man and shuffle towards the kitchen to grab some pain relief.

This time, the dream stays fresh in my mind. In the past, I’ve been unable to recall details, but since I’ve arrived in London—and especially since the beginning of this storm that has raged for weeks—I’ve gradually been able to retain more and more information.

There’s no doubt in my mind now that someone or something is showing me Cordelia Crawshanks’ memories. How or why, I can’t even begin to explain.

Grabbing a couple of paracetamol from the cupboard and filling a glass of water, I swallow them down. Even though my head hurts, I go through the motions of getting ready for my day like a zombie.

I’m tired and sluggish. No. I’m drained. Like my battery has run down. Usually with my magic pulsing through my veins, I have enough energy to power the Blackpool Illuminations, but honestly, right now? I’d rather crawl back into bed.

Which won’t do me any good. So, I shower and dress and style my hair, then finally perch on the edge of the chair and lean forward to lace my shoes. I’d much rather stay in the flat today, all snuggled on the sofa in my pyjamas and Uggs and listening to the storm outside with a cup of tea in my hands.

But I can’t. Not only do I have two customers today, if they’re brave enough to try and navigate the flooding caused by the storm, but I also have to keep on researching the portals for Tristan.

Fortunately, the painkillers have taken the edge off. The throbbing is down to a dull ache encompassing my whole skull. Even my eyes hurt.

I force myself to eat some toast although it’s like trying to choke down cardboard. But by the time I arrive downstairs in the shop and flick the lights on, I have a cup of soothing camomile tea in one hand and I’m feeling marginally human again.

It’s a bit early, but I unlock the front door anyway. Mr Franklin is my first customer due, and I don’t want to get distracted in the back room and forget to open up. If he does decide to brave the weather, I also wouldn’t want to leave him standing out in the rain.

Taking a sip of my tea, I set my cup down on the workbench in the back room, the door open so I can hear if anyone enters the shop. Then I start pulling books down from the shelf above and searching through them.

I keep thinking about the dream I had of when Cordelia retrieved her book of magic. She’d stepped through a solid wall into a space that shouldn’t have existed. At least, not in reality. One of the things I’ve managed to get my hands on are the blueprints from when the house was first built. Beyond the parlour had been a kitchen, separated by a thick brick supporting wall. Yet the room Cordelia had stepped into was huge. It had felt like a cavern even though it had been dark, and I—she couldn’t see beyond her candle’s light and the light of the rift. Yet that room doesn’t exist on the blueprints.

Tristan has described something similar a few times when he was talking about the space where the portal to the spirit world is, the one guarded by the former rugby-playing spirit named Bruce. An in-between place, he calls it. Something that exists outside our normal rules of reality. What if the portal started out as this rip in the air, the one Cordelia hid her precious book in?

If Death is correct—I still can’t quite believe that I can say or rather think that with absolute sincerity and not like it’s the punchline to a joke. If Death is correct and that portal can be used by dangerous creatures as a conduit into our world, then it needs to be closed.

But how?

It has to have been brought into existence by magic. There’s no way it’s a naturally occurring phenomenon. Logically, if magic opened it, it should be able to close it too. The problem is, I have no idea where to start trying to put together a spell of that magnitude.