Just as Salem was about to lunge for Alice’s ashen face, I grabbed the immortal cat by the hips and flung her down to the ground, right where the wine bottle had shattered moments before. She landed sure-footedly on the broken glass, then glared back up at us with a look of pure hatred in her scarlet eyes.
The hiss that came out of her was straight from the mouth of hell.
Then, with a final flick of her long black tail, she disappeared around a corner.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked Alice, who was staring after the cat as though she’d seen a ghost. The shoulder of her black silk top was torn, and smears of poppy-red blood surrounded the puncture wound.
‘I don’t understand,’ she whispered slowly.
‘Cats are weird,’ I said. ‘They see threats where humans don’t. They take against people for no reason. Don’t take it personally.’
‘No, Lottie,’ she murmured, shaking her head. ‘Ireallydon’t understand.’ She turned to face me, her eyes wide with something awfully terror-shaped. ‘I killed Salem a week ago.’
I stared at her. ‘You’re confused. Why would you have . . .? No.’
Her voice trembled as she said, ‘It was before I asked for your blood. Before I did the ritual again. I . . . The violent impulses, they were an onslaught. I found myself alone in the chapel one night, and Salem was there, and I don’t know what happened, Lottie, I really don’t, but the next thing I knew I was snapping her neck with my bare hands.’ She swallowed hard, gingerly lifting a hand to her scratched shoulder. ‘I took her to the woods and left her at the foot of a tree, so that whoever found her would think she’d fallen badly.’
I frowned. If this was true, it was awful, but how could it be true? Salem just attacked Alice moments ago. She was very much alive, if not particularly well. ‘Alice, are you . . . are you sure that really happened?’ I bit my lip. ‘Maybe the ritual withdrawals made you hallucinate?
Alice turned and stared out into the middle distance, looking troubled. As though she had no idea what was real and what was not.
*
Over the next couple of weeks, we made no further progress tracking down Renner, and each day flipped by with a sense of looming dread over the next transformation. I was finding it harder and harder to focus on the things I was supposed to be here to do. Studying Chaucer and hitting hockey balls into a goal seemed utterly arbitrary in the context of Poppy’s death and Alice’s predicament.
We didn’t talk about Salem again, and I got the sense that it was because there was no non-terrifying answer. Either Alice really had killed the cat, only for Salem to come back to life – or she’d imagined the whole thing, and Salem’s vicious attempted assault was entirely unrelated. Neither option was great, and so I tried not to dwell on them either.
When my essay onThe Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hydecame back with a high first and complimentary feedback from Professor Sanderson, I scanned through what I’d written and found a disturbing parallel to what was going on at Carvell. The plot was almost exactly what Alice and Hafsah were going through: a soul carved down the middle into good and evil, both sides constantly warring for command of the physical vessel.
‘See me after next class!’ Sanderson had scrawled in the margin, next to a row of extravagant ticks in green biro. For some reason, the thought of being alone with him sent invisible ants scurrying up my arms. His intensity, his jarring rhythm, his cultish grin. He was a brilliant lecturer, but a chilling presence.
And yet he knew a lot about Sister Maria. Maybe if I could get him alone, I could uncover some clues as to why she had dug her roots into me in the first place.
We’d just wrapped up a harrowing session onThe Castle of Otrantowhen I lingered by his desk, waiting for him to say goodbye to the other students. Today he was wearing a moss-green button-down rolled up to the elbows, and for the first time I noticed tattoo ink snaking around his inner forearm, though I couldn’t quite make out what it was. The sharply studded leather cuffs remained on his wrists, as though threatening anyone who tried to shake his hand.
‘Ms Fitzwilliam,’ he said once we were alone, his tone feathery soft. ‘I was so impressed with your essay. Please, sit.’
He gestured not to one of the classroom chairs but to his own; a burgundy leather wingback with clattering gold wheels and time-cracked arms. The idea of sitting in it while he remained standing made me uneasy, like it was too intimate an act, so I leaned back on a small, rickety school desk instead.
‘You wanted to see me?’ I asked, mouth dry as dead autumn leaves.
‘I did, I did,’ he said, staring intently at the entirely blank blackboard. He rolled a piece of chalk between his thumb and forefinger. ‘I think you show a lot of promise.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Your personal tutor is Professor Chiang, correct?’
I frowned carefully. ‘Yeah.’
He laid down the chalk and rubbed his hands together. The residual white dust erupted in gentle puffs, disturbing the sleepy drift of sun-dappled dust motes. ‘How would you feel about entering under my mentorship instead? I think you have a knack for the Gothic.’
You have no idea, I scoffed internally.
‘I . . . I’m not sure,’ I replied, not wanting to hurt his feelings. ‘I’m enjoying the module, but I don’t think I want to study Gothic horror long-term. Like for my dissertation.’
He raised his eyebrows as though he didn’t quite believe me; like he could tell I was lying to myself. It made me bristle. ‘I see. And whatdoyou want to write your thesis on?’
‘Golden age crime fiction. Or maybe even earlier, like Arthur Conan Doyle. He literally hated Sherlock with every fibre of his being. He’s hilarious.’