A FLICKERING LIGHT WAS SPILLING OUT PAST THE DARK wooden door, which was slightly ajar. Dragomira walked up to the house, followed by the six other valiant members of this vanguard. Abakum kept Oksa by his side, escorted by the Incompetent and Dragomira’s resourceful Lunatrix. Dragomira pushed open the heavy door with a loud creak, to reveal the large hall described by the Tumble-Bawler.
Wall-mounted glass candle globes bathed the room in a shifting radiance that was vaguely unsettling and the crystal pendants of the ceiling chandelier glittered in the candlelight. The draught from the opening door caused this ornate central light to tinkle and sway, covering the walls with myriad glints. On the parquet floor, darkened by the passage of years and the salty island air, they could make out a lighter geometric pattern which looked strangely familiar: it was the eight-branched star that was the symbol of Edefia—the Mark around Oksa’s belly button. She rested her hand on her stomach, feeling emotional. She knew how important the star was—she’d understood its significance and all it implied, but seeing such a large representation of it on the floor reminded her of the power she’d inherited. She, Oksa Pollock, an ordinary fourteen-year-old girl, who loved rollerblading and pop rock, had an extraordinary destiny… She was here in the middle of this hall in this house on this island. At the centre of the world. She took a deep breath and lifted her head high. Deep down, and for the first time, she really felt that she was the Heart of Two Worlds.
The Runaways cautiously filed into the hall. Despite their apprehension, they wanted to confront their enemies and fellow Insiders. Senses alert, they took out their Granok-Shooters to give them courage and instinctively closed ranks. Oksa looked around warily, unsure what to do if a Felon suddenly appeared. Suddenly, they saw a backlit figure at the top of the monumental staircase. Its shadow stretched to Dragomira’s feet and she stiffened. The elegant, regal figure slowly descended the steps, followed by two other, larger silhouettes. When they reached the middle of the staircase, the light from the candles finally illuminated their faces.
“Good evening, Dragomira… Good evening, Young Gracious,” rang out a female voice that some of them recognized instantly. “You’ve come well protected, I see!”
“Good evening, Mercedica,” replied Dragomira, suppressing a sudden surge of rage. “Allow me to return the compliment,” she added, staring at the two young men beside her.
“Why, thank you,” replied the haughty Spanish woman wryly. “Delighted to meet you at last, Reminiscens,” she added suddenly. “After all these years… I imagine you’ve recognized your nephews, haven’t you?”
Oksa felt Reminiscens flinch. Mercedica hadn’t lost any time in opening hostilities… Reminiscens was more robust than she looked, though; she glared icily at the trio.
“Mortimer and Gregor, your twin brother’s sons!” said Mercedica, looking pleased as punch.
The two young men’s mocking smiles were immediately wiped from their faces by Reminiscens’ retort.
“For your information, Mercedica, I feel as much sense of kinship with the young men you call my ‘nephews’ as this crumpled paper handkerchief in my pocket.”
With this, she pulled out the handkerchief and walked over to the nearest candle sconce. There was a stunned silence as the handkerchief burst into flames. Reminiscens let it fall to the floor and crushed the burning fragments under her heel.
“Blood ties are stronger than some tatty handkerchief, my dear Reminiscens,” sneered Mercedica with a forced smile. “Still, we’ll have time to talk about all that later,” she continued, descending the last few steps. “Do come in!”
Flanked by Gregor and Mortimer, she walked over to the double doors on the left and flung them open. There, in deathly silence, stood all the Felons who’d rallied to Orthon’s cause, their eyes fixed on the Runaways.
Dragomira entered the huge living room, flanked by Oksa, Reminiscens and Abakum. The room was thickly carpeted and lit by the wavering light of oil lamps mounted on the polished sandstone walls. There were a number of worn leather armchairs arranged in a semicircle around an enormous hearth where a fire was burning merrily, while others were grouped separately around hammered metal coffee tables. The wall at the end of the room was entirely covered with bookshelves filled with shabby antique books. The luxurious setting would have been welcoming, were it not for the incredibly tense atmosphere.
Although discomfited, the Runaways were probably no more intimidated than the Felons who, despite their grim expressions, couldn’t conceal their confusion at coming face to face with four people whose illustrious reputation had preceded them: two Graciouses, the twin sister of their leader, Orthon, and the powerful Fairyman. The creatures and the Runaways, whom they couldn’t see but whose presence they could sense outside the house, also urged caution. Abakum, Dragomira and Reminiscens couldn’t help feeling emotional at the sight of the faces before them. Some of them still looked incredibly familiar, more than fifty years after leaving Edefia. As a result, even though they’d known they’d see them on the island sooner or later, Edefia’s “Elders” couldn’t help feeling a little ambivalent about recognizing Lukas, the talented mineralogist, and Agafon, the former Memorarian—custodian of the Gracious Archives. None of the Insiders could have claimed they were completely prepared for this showdown in the flesh.
“Won’t you sit down?” suggested Mercedica, waving a beringed hand at several sofas against the wall.
None of the seven Runaways moved. They were too busy examining the others. Oksa noticed that Mortimer couldn’t take his eyes off Zoe. He’d changed so much! He’d lost his excess body weight and looked thinner, yet stronger. Turning to look encouragingly at her cousin, Oksa was surprised to see that Zoe was glaring defiantly at Mortimer with her arms firmly crossed. Oksa transferred her gaze to the other teenager, who looked as though he had to be related to Orthon: lean frame, black eyes and rigid bearing. “That must be Gregor,” thought the Young Gracious, studying his hard face. “He was the one who’d dared to raise a hand to Baba and who’d stolen the Medallion and the Goranov! What a lowlife.”
It was Dragomira who finally broke the stand-off. She strode over to Mercedica with a fierce expression in her eyes. The Felons looked uneasy, and several of them took up defensive stances, ready to fight. In a tight crimson wrap-over top, with expensive jewellery dripping from her neck and hands, traitorous Mercedica seemed amused by the situation and was smiling nastily. At her side, her daughter Catarina eyed the Runaways contemptuously.
“This is not a social visit,” said the Old Gracious eventually. “Where is Orthon? I expect he’s holed up somewhere, isn’t he?”
“All in good time!” taunted Mercedica. “But, tell me, are there only seven of you? Did your friends get cold feet and turn back?”
There were a few sniggers and scornful sneers. Dragomira didn’t bother to answer. Oksa was the one who replied.
“You watched us arrive!” she said, her voice shaking. “You know very well that we outnumber you!”
“My dear Oksa,” sighed Mercedica, looking amused. “There may be a lot of you, but there isn’t always strength in numbers…”
Suddenly there was a commotion in the hall and the door was flung open. A hideous creature burst into the living room, bellowing raucously.
“GRRR! The decrepit old shrew and her degenerate descendants! Why don’t you all eat dung and die!”
“Fantastic! That’s all we need,” huffed Dragomira, recognizing the Abominari.
The slimy, bony creature launched itself at her, twisted claws outstretched. Dragomira put up her hand and a thin projectile of light shot from the centre of her palm to strike the Abominari head on, hurling it against the metal fireguard. It fell over backwards, its shoulder smoking, then dashed at her again, growling more with rage than pain.
“I’ll disembowel you and wear your decaying guts as a stinking necklace, you scraggy hyena!”
This time Mercedica blocked its way, catching hold of the sticky limb which served as an arm. The Abominari struggled to free itself.
“I see it’s just as charming as ever,” scoffed Dragomira.
“Shut your putrid cakehole, vile harpy!” snarled the Abominari.
“You do not possess the right to make voicing of uncouthness in the direction of my Old Gracious!” objected the Lunatrix, who had turned completely translucent with anger.
“I possess the right to do whatever I want, pig-faced slave!”
Angrily, Oksa performed a Magnetus and the paper-knife on a desk in the corner of the room suddenly thudded between the creature’s three gnarled toes, almost severing one.
“Daughter of a sow!” yelled the Abominari.
“Hey! I’ve had enough of this!” shouted Oksa, losing her temper.
That horrible creature had gone too far. Noticing a basket filled with wood by the fireplace, Oksa concentrated hard. A second later, a massive log dropped onto the Abominari’s head and the creature staggered, then collapsed on the floor with a disgusting sucking noise.
“Tut tut tut, my friends! Is this any way to celebrate a reunion which is such an… unlooked-for pleasure?” boomed a man’s voice.
The Runaways froze—they’d have recognized that voice anywhere. They stood in silence as the man walked through the wall and threaded his way between the Felons to stand in front of Dragomira.
“Good evening, Dragomira,” he said, with a slight bow. “Or should I say: Good evening, dear sister.”