Spirit

  Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue: The Sleeping Girl

  1 On the Edge

  2 Guilt

  3 White Is the Colour of Death

  4 Night Closes In

  5 Awakening

  6 King of Pain

  7 Untamed

  8 Children of the Sea

  9 Bialoweza

  10 Deceptions

  11 Heir to Silence

  12 Shadows of the Moon

  13 Like the Moon

  14 Burning Lion

  15 Into the Gold

  16 What We Were Meant For

  17 On the Other Side

  18 My Brother

  19 Tigers of the North

  20 Another Nail in Our Cross

  21 Mine Is This Path

  22 The Memory of the Sea

  23 A Feast of Souls

  24 Fireflies

  25 The Message

  26 Voice of the Seal

  27 A Soul of Stone

  28 In the Mirror

  29 If I Die Here

  30 Breathe

  31 Shouts and Whispers

  32 Winter Shaw

  33 Locked

  34 The Blood that Runs in My Veins

  35 A Torture of Gold

  36 This Painful Love

  37 I’m Coming to You

  38 Webs

  39 The Price to Pay

  40 A Life in Shadows

  41 Together

  42 Faces

  43 Figlia Mia

  44 Every End is a Beginning

  45 Sacrifice

  46 Spirit

  47 The Abyss

  48 Burning Sky

  49 Power

  50 The Emperor of the North

  51 Fate (part one)

  52 The Reason

  53 Fate (part two)

  54 The Day I Knew

  55 The Silenced Song

  56 The End of Shadows

  57 The End of Dreams

  58 When All the World Is Calm

  59 Love on the Water

  60 When You Return

  Copyright

  This book is for Edo

  Acknowledgements

  My heartfelt thanks go to Janne Moller, Kristen Susienka and Rachel Reid, my wonderful editors and friends. I am forever grateful I had the chance to work with you. Many thanks in particular to Rachel for being the first to believe in Sarah. Thank you from the bottom of my heart to Charlotte Robertson, for being the agent to end all agents! My gratitude goes also to Lindsey Fraser and all her precious advice, to Campbell Brown and Alison McBride at Black & White Publishing for overall wonderfulness, and to Stuart Polson for the covers of all three books. Thank you, thank you, thank you to Roy Gill and Phil Miller for writerly talks and for your generous support, not to mention beautiful writing to inspire me. To those who soundtracked the trilogy – Manran and the amazing Norrie McIver, Julie Fowlis, Clannad and Duncan Chisolm – thank you for endless inspiration.

  Thank you Ross for your belief in me and for providing endless cups of coffee! Thank you to my wonderful mum, Ivana, and to my mother-in-law, Beth, for being such amazing mothers and grandmothers. And more than anyone, more than ever, thank you to my little writer and artist, Sorley, and to my little hero, Luca: everything I do and everything I am is for you.

  Prologue

  The Sleeping Girl

  A dream on the water

  A city of plague and laces

  Steps in the night

  Echo my call

  Venice, Italy

  Nobody saw the slender, amber-skinned girl walking on the water of the Grand Canal, placing one foot slowly in front of the other, the moonlight reflected on her cropped black hair and the hem of her gown dripping with every step she took. To either side of her, tethered boats and gondolas swayed on the murky waters, the canal’s foulness a contrast to the beauty of the palaces. The city itself was rotting quietly, year after year, crumbling and dissolving in a dream of splendour and decay.

  Micol walked on, straight-backed and solemn and silent, worn from the effort of staying afloat on the water and still unable to stop, because when she stopped she would have to go home, her new home. And to go back to Palazzo Vendramin, where the sleeping girl seemed to steal the air from her lungs, where the Ailment had slowly eaten one of her brothers’ bodies and the other’s mind – to go back was just unbearable.

  But she had to. There was no other place of safety, and to be out alone at night – or any time, really – was almost certain death.

  Still, for a little while longer Micol would walk under the moonlight, the sound of lapping water in her ears, the slow swoosh of her gown sending rats scurrying along the walls of the palazzos. Micol gazed at a little pack of them, fat and black and fearless, climbing down a gilded façade and into the water, and then she looked up at the black sky still dotted with stars, slowly turning orange in the east. She longed for freedom and purity and wished herself far, far away from this dying city.

  But she knew that the plague would get her too, one day soon. Like it came for her brothers, Tancredi and Ranieri. For her, a quick demon death would be preferable to the Azasti. So Micol had made her decision: as soon as she spotted the first signs on herself – the blue nails, the constant exhaustion, the bleeding at the slightest cut, the slightest bruise – she’d go out and walk. Just walk.

  And when they attacked, she would not defend herself.

  A glimmer of light danced on Micol’s bare feet. Dawn was breaking, and the city would soon awaken. She couldn’t delay any more. She had to go back and let those mad Vendramins lock her up for another day.

  Micol shuddered as she lifted herself up onto the street, her hands struggling to find a grip on the algae-covered bricks. She sat on the pavement for a moment, her wet feet freezing in the winter air, and then forced herself up. What she would give not to see Lucrezia, the sleeping girl, again. Not to hear her screams ever again for as long as she lived.

  Micol tiptoed along the calle until she reached the palazzo. She lifted her dress and tied it in a knot at her hip, and then she started climbing the ivy-covered wall, her slim limbs strong and supple, her grip firm like someone who’d been climbing trees every day of her fifteen years of life. In no time at all, she’d scaled the wall and jumped into the Vendramin garden, making no noise as she fell to the frosty grass. In one graceful movement she lifted her arm, fingers extended, and murmured a few words in the Ancient language. A lightning bolt danced from the sky and hit her index fingers, travelling through her body and discharging into the earth. One of Vendramin’s demon traps – she knew them all. Or at least, she hoped so. Maybe one day, returning from one of her night water walks, she’d find herself skewed or electrocuted by a trap she wasn’t aware of, or eaten alive by some new Elemental she had no control over. And still, as dangerous as it was, she couldn’t stop going out at night. If she had to spend her nights locked up with those crazy people who were sheltering her now, she’d go crazy too. Like Lucrezia. Often in her dreams, Micol saw herself lying beside Lucrezia, in an equally tormented sleep, without ever being able to wake up.

  A throaty growl interrupted her thoughts. She turned around to see a night-black beast looking at her, eyes narrow, its incisors too big to fit into its mouth, saliva dripping down its neck and onto the grass. The creature bent slightly to give itself momentum, and then pounced.

  “Ouch! My legs, you silly beast! Oh, come here. You happy to see me? Me too. Good bo—” She didn’t have time to finish the sentence when an arrow hissed in front of her nose and buried itself into the brick wall behind her.

  “What did you do that for?” she whispered, too angry to even articulate properly. A young man stood a few feet from her, a furious look in his eyes
. He clutched a bow with both his hands, and there was another arrow in it, ready.

  “I’ll kill you before you get us all killed. Do you understand me?” the man said, and something in his voice left Micol in no doubt that he meant it.

  Raging, Micol strode through the manicured gardens, in between a row of stone statues and one of the palazzo’s exquisite rose bushes. The young man followed her closely.

  “If you kill me, your dad will kill you, Alvise.”

  “You’re not that precious, Micol. Stop fancying yourself as some kind of princess.”

  Micol stopped suddenly and turned around to face Alvise. “Yes, well, stop fancying yourself as some kind of hero, because you have no powers and a Secret heir with no powers is good for no—” Her words were again interrupted, this time by a slap so swift and strong that it made her head twist sharply to one side. She tasted blood on her lips.

  Micol saw red. She narrowed her eyes, and static raced over her arms. Her short dark hair began lifting slowly.

  “What do you think you’re doing, little girl?”

  Guglielmo Vendramin was standing in front of her. Without ceremony, he grabbed her by the shoulder and dragged her inside. As soon as they stepped into the hall, with its ornate ceilings and its arched windows, he threw her on the floor.

  Micol sobbed in anger. She was furious. Soon her brother would come back and take her away from here. She focused on the mosaic tiles on the floor, following their patterns, their colours. She wasn’t there. Her body was there, but not her mind. She would not let them win.

  She studied the floor, a mosaic of swirling colours. A lion on fire, devouring the sun. The symbol of the Vendramin. Brutal, like them. And mad. They all were.

  Suddenly, a strong hand curled around hers, and lifted her to her feet.

  “Micol. You don’t seem to understand the situation,” hissed Vendramin. His silver hair and beard glinted in the rays of the rising dawn, the lines on his face deep and his eyes etched with worry. “The Secret Families are dying. Because of the Azasti, because of the demons closing in on us. And you run away like a little girl. You render traps around the palace useless, as if this were some kind of joke!”

  “She’ll get us all killed, Father,” the young man reiterated. Vendramin gazed at his son. His strong features, the sharp cheekbones, the white-blond hair. He was the double of his mother. Only nineteen, and so much on his shoulders already. Every morning Vendramin checked him for signs of the Azasti that was devouring so many Italian Secret Families, but for now, their family had been spared.

  “She won’t,” Vendramin said unexpectedly. There was a hint of fatigue in his voice, a weariness that clashed with the man’s proud demeanour. “She’s learnt her lesson. Haven’t you, Micol?”

  Micol lowered her eyes. She hated him. She hated them all and she wanted to go home. But she knew they were right. She knew that what she was doing was foolish. She’d have to survive being locked in with all these sick people, these mad people.

  At that moment, a scream pierced the silence, followed by a shuffle of feet and a tapping of heels. It was the sleeping girl screaming out a nightmare, and Cosima, the chief maid and Lucrezia’s main carer, running to see to her.

  “If she doesn’t toe the line,” Vendramin continued, his eyes on Alvise’s face but his words clearly directed toward Micol, “she knows what will happen to her.”

  Micol felt nauseous.

  Yes. She knew.

  1

  On the Edge

  You are our dark heart

  Black reflection

  Of what we fear we are

  Germany–Poland border

  A trickle of sweat ran down Sarah’s back as the soldier beckoned her out of the car. Why had he singled her out, out of all the members of their group? Why now? They had travelled through half of Europe, from Islay all the way to the Polish border, without ever being stopped. They had been lucky. Their passports were kosher, of course, except for Nicholas’, who had a completely forged identity – but he had reassured them it was watertight. There had been no time to create new identities, new passports after leaving Islay, and they had got from place to place by sheer luck. But finally, it seemed their luck had given in.

  The soldier, a young blond man with enormous hands and suspicious eyes, said something in Polish. It didn’t sound friendly. Sarah couldn’t speak Polish, but the meaning of his gestures was clear enough. She obeyed and stepped out of the car, joining Sean under a fine, frozen drizzle that chilled her to the bone. Even though she had on a heavy black jacket and fur-lined boots, she was still freezing in the harsh Polish winter. They all were, after days and nights outside without daring to light a fire.

  Nicholas’ ravens – the Elementals he had under his control – were circling above them, black wings against the white sky, cawing. They were guiding Sarah and her friends to the Gate of the Shadow World. Their cawing said that this unscheduled stop was not welcome.

  Sarah’s breath congealed in little white clouds as she stood, waiting for the soldier to speak. The soldier fixed his eyes on Sarah. He was studying her face, she realised. As though he’d seen her somewhere before, like the memory was about to click in his mind – or was she being paranoid? Her stomach churned. Her biggest fear throughout the journey had been that someone, somewhere – the Midnight housekeeper on Islay, or the family and friends Sarah had left behind in Edinburgh – would decide to issue a missing person alarm over her disappearance. Her face would be passed on to the police and plastered inside petrol stations and rest stops all over the world. When she had phoned her aunt from Islay, she hadn’t thought of asking her not to do that. She’d been too astonished to find out her aunt was alive, after the wildcat attack that had left her for dead. Sarah believed Aunt Juliet had understood that involving the police wouldn’t help – the opposite, in fact – but she couldn’t be sure. Contacting her again would have been too dangerous.

  “Is there a problem?” Sean asked the soldier, sounding calm and unconcerned. She looked at him from the corner of her eye. His self-control never ceased to amaze her. The more danger they were in, the more he seemed to keep his composure.

  “No problem,” the man replied in heavily accented English. His eyes were still narrowed, still studying Sarah’s face. “I go inside for a moment,” he said, shifting his rifle towards the concrete cabin at the side of the road. “Lont!” He beckoned to a young man with black eyes and a thin, barely there moustache.

  As Lont saw Sarah, something passed over his face – a flicker of recognition – but he didn’t say anything. The two soldiers had a brief conversation in Polish. Sarah gathered that Lont was supposed to keep an eye on them while the blond soldier went inside the station. Her heart was pounding against her ribs. What was he going to do, once inside? Was he going to call someone? Check her face against a database of missing person’s alerts? Her mind was racing. She met Sean’s eyes and something unspoken flew between them.

  Sean looked over at Niall, who was just behind them, leaning against Nicholas’ car door, waiting. Both nodded imperceptibly. The message was clear. They had to run. Sarah gazed around her. There were soldiers everywhere, with rifles and a look on their faces that said they were not afraid to use them. It was like some war film, she thought, exasperated. Her hands were already flooding with Blackwater – the power to melt and dissolve skin and bone – when Lont took a step closer. In the blink of an eye, Sean’s hand was on his sgian-dubh.

  “Sarah Midnight. It is you,” whispered Lont. Sarah gaped at him. How did he know her name? He hadn’t seen her passport; the blond soldier had taken it inside with him, and as they spoke he had not picked up on her name. For a moment, she was too shocked to speak. Sean was holding his sgian-dubh low against his stomach so that nobody would see. He had already begun tracing his runes.

  Lont’s gaze fell on the blade, and he put a hand up. “No use the runes, Midnight Gamekeeper,” he whispered in broken English. “Listen to me. I am Gamekeeper too.
You go. Now.”

  It took a split second to take in the soldier’s words, but then Sean nodded, and made a gesture towards Niall to tell him to get back into the car. Lont released the barrier, shouting something in Polish towards the other soldiers, who were standing in little clusters along the border. And then, to Sarah: “Go!”

  She didn’t have to be told twice. Praying that the blond soldier in the station was not aware of Lont’s betrayal – yet – they climbed back into their cars. As Sean drove away as fast as he could, but not too fast – in case the other soldiers thought they had something to hide – Sarah met Lont’s eye for a moment. Thank you, she mouthed.

  Sean calmly raised his hand in greeting towards the soldiers and nodded briefly. Sarah could not believe how calm he was. She wanted to look as composed as Sean, but she couldn’t help turning back and gazing into the mirrors, imagining army vehicles or police cars following them, a car chase like in an action movie. As if the demons weren’t enough to deal with. She switched on the radio and started messing with the stations. “Do you understand Polish at all? In case we’re in the news.”

  “Not a clue, sorry. The only word I could make out was your name. I hope the Gamekeeper is okay,” Sean replied. “How on earth did he know?”

  “I have no idea. I suppose there must still be a few people left in the network, looking out for the Secret Families.” Sarah took a deep breath. Her mouth was dry. “We’ll never know, I suppose. Not until all this is over and we can try to find out how many of us are left.”

  Sarah’s words hung between them. They both had finished the sentence in their minds: if we’re still alive. They were quiet for a while, the drizzle turning into tiny snowflakes again, falling white and silent on the road and on the fields around them. And then Sean braided his fingers with Sarah’s and squeezed her hand for a moment, a moment that ended too fast. He returned his hand to the wheel, leaving Sarah with a melted heart and a racing mind.

  It was the first time he’d touched her since they’d left Islay. The feeling of his skin on hers brought on a sea of emotions she didn’t know how to handle. She swallowed, wrapped her arms around herself, and sank deeper into her seat.