Storm snapped at Professor Nuffield’s hands. It did no good, but it was vaguely satisfying when Nuffield yelped in pain. Professor Utterby glanced back from the front seat. ‘Will someone keep that dog under control?’ he asked.
The two professors had first driven back to the school to collect Utterby. Now the car was moving out of town, taking Storm further away from safety, further away from Jessie.
He was a stormhound, Storm reminded himself, not a puppy. He was the one who’d chosen to leave Jessie and he didn’t need the assistance of humans. In fact, he hoped Jessie didn’t try to find him. He hoped he never saw her again – because, if she found him with the professors, there was no saying what they’d do to her. Knowing she was safe at home made Storm braver.
Professor Ryston sneezed, and dug a handkerchief out of his pocket. He wore a jumper that reminded Storm of the Fuzzy-Lady from the dog prison, except that Ryston’s smelled of stale magic. Storm scrabbled across Nuffield’s legs.
‘Calm down, stormhound,’ Professor Utterby said. ‘We won’t keep you long, and then you’ll be free.’
Did they mean to send him back to the Hunt? Storm paused, but then Ryston sniggered. ‘Free of life altogether,’ he said.
That made Storm whine.
‘Do you think he can understand us?’ Nuffield asked.
Utterby braked sharply at a corner, jolting them all forward, then drove on. ‘A creature of the Otherworld? I have no doubt of it.’
Maybe I’m not a creature of the Otherworld. Maybe I’m just an ordinary puppy and you’re wasting your time.
‘Some people say magic doesn’t belong in this world,’ Professor Utterby continued as if Storm hadn’t said a word. It seemed they couldn’t understand him. ‘Can you believe that, stormhound? I believe magic should belong to everyone – anyone who wants it, that is. The Otherworld has hoarded it far too long.’
You just wait. I’ll show you the power of the Otherworld, Storm growled. He felt his shadow begin to spread across the back seat.
‘If you’d had to fight for every scrap of magic, you’d understand,’ Professor Utterby said. ‘We have devoted our lives to it, building on the traditions of those who came before us. Decades of study, of experimentation, of pushing the boundaries of knowledge. And then I found it – a few lines of a spell, at the back of an ancient book, the ink so faded we could barely read it.’
‘I think this is the right dog, by the way,’ Nuffield said, watching Storm’s shadow writhe.
‘Of course it is. A spell, stormhound, powerful enough to breach the barrier between our world and yours. It took a few attempts, but we did it – we reached into the Otherworld and brought a stormhound crashing down to earth.’
I don’t care what you did. You will release me, or . . . Hold on, a spell?
Professor Nuffield wrapped the spare seat belt round him and pulled it tight, so Storm could barely move. He didn’t resist. A strange lightness filled him. The professors had cast a spell. He hadn’t fallen because he was too weak or too slow to keep up. It had been the professors’ doing!
‘I have to admit I was expecting something a bit more impressive than you,’ Professor Utterby said. ‘But you’ll do. We know all about the power of stormhounds. Your blood, your hair, your tears. You are going to help us restore the Invisible College to its former glory. We can make a hundred different spells from your body. We will use them to seize yet more magic, we will reopen the college and train a whole new generation of sorcerers. We will tear such a rift in the barrier with the Otherworld that it will never close again.’
‘I thought we were going to keep the stormhound’s power for ourselves,’ Professor Ryston said, coughing and shifting nervously away from Storm. ‘I want a cure for asthma, remember.’
‘There will be plenty of power to go round,’ Utterby replied. ‘We can afford to be generous.’
‘But not too generous,’ Nuffield said. He pulled stray wisps of hair out of his moustache. ‘Maybe we could start with one student, someone to sweep the floors and wash the test tubes.’
‘Or someone to answer the phones,’ Ryston suggested wistfully. ‘Like a real college.’
Silence settled like a weight. Abergavenny was far behind them, and the dark, broken shape of a mountain peak rose before them. Storm’s ears pricked. He recognized that mountain – it was where he’d fallen into this world. He strained to see out of the car window. If he was right, the road would be bending round when it got to the hills, and he’d see trees, and . . .
A sheep wandered into the road, causing Professor Utterby to brake sharply. He sounded the horn, but the sheep didn’t move. Another one meandered out into the road, followed by another, and another. Storm struggled against the seat belt. One of the sheep looked in through the side window at him.
Sheep, help! Storm barked.
Professor Utterby turned off the car engine. ‘We have plenty of time. Let’s not hurry and spoil things. Nuffield, keep hold of the dog. Ryston, go outside and move the sheep.’
‘Why me?’ Ryston grumbled.
‘Because you’re the youngest and you’re supposed to do what your elders tell you. Jump to it.’
Professor Ryston muttered words that even Odin would have considered rude, and opened the car door to get out. Storm tried to dash after him, but the seat belt tangled round his body jerked him back. Ryston slammed the door again.
Storm lay panting slightly while Professor Nuffield hummed tunelessly, Professor Utterby drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and, outside, Professor Ryston chased sheep to and fro with his divining rods.
‘If it’s any consolation, young stormhound,’ Professor Utterby said, watching his colleague. ‘Your death will make a whole world of difference. To you as well, of course, but mainly to us.’
My death isn’t going to happen.
Professor Utterby was taking Storm exactly where he needed to go. All he had to do was escape once they reached the mountain and wait for the Hunt to come.
As if in reply, a low growl of thunder ruffled the clouds. Outside, Ryston pointed his divining rods at the sheep and sparks flew out. The sheep bleated in alarm and scattered.
Storm flopped down on the seat, looking as if he’d given up, as Ryston climbed back in, dripping wet.
‘We’ll have to walk the last part so you’d have got wet anyway,’ Professor Utterby said unsympathetically.
He started the car again. Storm’s stomach lurched with the motion and with a strange mixture of hope and dread. If the Hunt didn’t come in time, this could end badly. Never before had Storm feared he might die. It should have squashed him, but, oddly, it made him feel bigger, more alive. Was this what it felt like to be mortal?