Gallows at Twilight by William Hussey Page A

that night a year ago when, in the hollow cavern of Crowden’s Sorrow, he had witnessed the boy’s power. He remembered the molten magic flying from Jake’s fingers, sealing the Door and conquering the Demontide. Soon after, Grype had fled in terror. He had been certain that Marcus Crowden, his master, would perish at the boy’s hand. And yet, a little time later, Crowden had found him cowering on the beach. He had forgiven Grype his cowardice and had allowed him to remain part of the Coven.
    Throughout that conversation, Crowden had kept his head turned away from Grype, as if he hadn’t wanted his face to be seen. Ever since, he had worn a pair of dark glasses. And then there was Crowden’s voice—it was colder than before, somehow less human. Grype often thought of that voice that had called out from the demon world, and wondered: was this man that looked so much like Marcus Crowden really his old master?
    There were other mysteries, too. What exactly was Simon Lydgate? Grype pictured the boy on the beach that night, standing at Crowden’s side, naked and trembling. He hadn’t seemed to know where he was—even who he was. Why had the Master kept him prisoner here at Havlock Grange for the past few weeks? He must be important, Grype decided, or else Jacob Harker and his friends would not have risked their lives to come looking for him. Grype knew that the boy possessed the ability to change into something monstrous, but although he had been Simon’s keeper, casting sleeping spells and feeding him scraps of food, he still did not know the true nature of the beast.
    Mysteries, mysteries, and no one to explain them to so lowly a creature as Roland Grype.
    Mr Hegarty, Grype’s vulture-like familiar, flew in through the open doorway. The demon-bird landed on Grype’s shoulder and squawked in his ear.
    ‘They have gone? Good.’ Grype stroked Hegarty’s beetle-infested plumage. The bird nudged him with its beak. ‘Yes, yes, don’t fret. I’ll make my report.’
    The witch gathered up his courage and faced the staircase. His voice quivered like the plucked strings of a harp.
    ‘I summon you, most faithful demon of the Crowden family. Box of endless night, casket of torment, repository of nightmares—I call upon you to lead me to your master.’
    Grype’s words echoed up the stairs and into the empty corners of Havlock Grange. For a long time nothing happened. The rain eased and the wind fell to whispering around the door. Through the hole in the roof, Grype could see the first watery streaks of dawn lighten the sky.
    The air grew suddenly colder. Grype shivered as a block-ish shadow passed overhead. The swirling form of Crowden’s nightmare box swept into the hall and landed at the top of the stairs. Although he had summoned it, Grype took a step back. He had never been inside the cabinet himself, but he had seen the faces of unfortunate witches as they staggered out of it. He remembered the fearless Mother Inglethorpe— that powerful witch who had been killed by Dr Harker’s bullet—and how she had once been forced to endure ten minutes inside the box. Much as he had hated that woman, even Grype shuddered at the thought of her trapped inside the demon.
    The door of the nightmare box creaked open.
    Screaming voices cut the air. Whether they were the shrieks of souls imprisoned within the cabinet, or the voice of the box itself, Grype did not know. Terror clutched at his heart as the thing floated towards him.
    The box stopped a few metres short of Grype. Its doors swung wide and a black cloud rose up from inside. In his panic, Grype staggered back, tripped and landed on the floor with a heavy thump. He watched the cloud twist upwards and spread out across the ceiling of the Great Hall. A harsh buzzing sound droned through the air, and Grype realized that the cloud was not a cloud at all. It was a swarm.
    Mr Hegarty fluttered onto Grype’s shoulder. Together they watched as a human face grew out of the