The fire escape led down to a concrete backyard arrayed with wheelie bins and an old stove. This backed on to the yard of another guest house on the next road along. It was easy enough to clamber the wall and exit from there, keeping to the shadows and not showing myself till I was well away from the guest house. I made my way up the hill to St Andrew's church. There were no cars at this time of night, just the faint echoes of the sea on the hush of the breeze. A gull's call broke noisily into the night in a squabble for roosting space and then subsided.
The east window was dark and the door was locked. Greg had said he kept the church locked to prevent theft and vandalism. He hadn't said whether the church was alarmed or not. I scouted round the building. There were two other doors, one tucked behind the church at the west tower and another vestry door on the far side from the main door, but no sign of an external alarm box. Those windows that could be opened looked as if they hadn't been touched in years and were too far off the ground to access without a ladder. I circled back to the main door. If any of the doors were alarmed then the likelihood was that they all were, and at least I knew that this one gave me access to the photos and personal items of the girls who were missing. With those, I could use my power to discover whether the girls were really missing or had simply chosen not to stay in Ravensby.
Merging with the shadows in the porch, I surveyed the black oak door. I had seen Blackbird open locked doors like this a number of times but I had never done it myself. While I knew it could be done, I had never had call for such skills over the past months. I had been immersed in the regime of Garvin's training. I had once asked Garvin when he would start training me to use my power.
"Do you feel confident and competent with a sword?" he had asked.
I had shaken my head while he smiled his quiet smile.
"Knowing your limits is part of your training. I'll teach you the subtlety and flexibility of power when you can handle something simple, like a sword."
I had accepted his answer with good grace, seeing the sense in his words, but I wished now that I had made better progress so I would have some idea what I was doing. I guess I would just have to improvise.
I felt inside and connected to the core of power within me. A dark tendril wormed its way out of the cold bright core at the centre of my being. Not for the first time, I wondered what it was that I connected with. Was it a creature? When Blackbird called me back to life on the London Underground last year, had she conjured some creature to live within me like a parasite? Was I simply its host? If I summoned gallowfyre it was like releasing a tentacled creature of dark shadows. Was that what lived inside me? It would suck the life energy of anything within reach unless I constrained it, and feed me with the life energy of others. Did that make it some sort of symbiotic life-form? Blackbird said not. She said that gallowfyre was an expression of my link with the void, the element associated with the wraithkin. She laughed when I asked whether it was alive.
"Only as much as your arm or your leg is alive." She laughed. "It's you, Niall."
I wasn't sure that explanation made me any more comfortable.
I placed my hand on the dark oak of the door and allowed the tendril of power to worm its way into the wood. In my mind's eye, it explored the crevices and cracks, tasting the bitter wood. Though there was no physical taste, my mouth still ran with saliva in reaction to the sensation. It wound around the knots, following the grain.
Suddenly there was a hard jolt. I almost jerked my hand away. It felt sharp and hot. The tendril had discovered something embedded in the wood. It felt sour, a spike of harsh metal embedded in the door. I realised we must have encountered an old nail or a bolt, embedded in the wood. The essence of it had seeped into the surrounding wood, tainting the oak. The tendril curled around it, avoiding where it pierced the door.
My power threaded slowly through the wood, searching for weaknesses and flaws, exploiting cracks. It was slow and difficult, worming through, looking for a way to release the lock, and it took all my attention. I realised that if anyone came looking in the small porch while I was there I would be discovered. I didn't have the concentration to hold my glamour, investigate the door and keep a lookout at the same time.
Momentarily distracted, my attention came back to the tendril. While my mind was elsewhere, it had done something strange. It had branched. Where there had been one exploring tendril before, now there were two – no, three, four, it was branching quicker than I could count. The whole door was soon threaded through like ivy on a wall, woven through every crack and crevice. I could feel every nail, each knot and curve in the grain. It was still locked, though. How did Blackbird get doors to pop open?
I could feel where the lock was screwed into the door. I tried extending the tendrils into the lock, but it was as sour and bitter as the nail had been. I could force my way into it, but all I could discern was the bitterness of the steel with no sense of the lock. Anyway, what was I intending to do, try and pick it? I had no idea how to pick a lock, even if I had tools and could do it where I could see it. There had to be another way.
Using the power threaded through it, I felt the door and willed it to open. The wood groaned under my hand, flexing at my will. It pinged and creaked until I thought it would crack. Breaking the door wouldn't help: it would be obvious that someone had broken in. I wanted to be inside, but I didn't want anyone to know I had been there.
I withdrew the tendrils of power from the door and dropped my hand away. Dispirited by my failed attempt I walked around the church again, looking for a way in. I could break in, but that would be vandalism. I didn't think Greg deserved that. I could wait until the morning and ask for his help, but I didn't want to explain what I was intending to do. He was far too good at seeing the truth in things. I could contact Blackbird and ask her how she did it, but I was hoping she would be asleep by now, tucked up with horseshoes for comfort, and if I asked Garvin he would likely tell me that I shouldn't be there in the first place.
I returned to the porch and sat on the bench that lined one side. It was ridiculous to be defeated by a simple locked door. I had watched Blackbird do this a number of times. What would she say if she were here?
You're trying too hard. Relax, let it come.
That was all very well, but it wasn't happening.
You don't catch a pigeon by chasing it.
That wasn't much use, either, was it?
A cake is a cake, a mouse is a mouse, a door is a door.
What had she been talking about when she said that? She had been baking, something I never expected of her, but which made her happy even when she was throwing up from morning sickness. The smell of cooking had woken me and I had come down to find her in full production. While her back was turned I stole a small bun dotted with currants, still warm from the oven. She had smiled when the crumbs on my cheek had given me away, but then frowned when I asked what it was made of.
"Cake," she said.
"I meant, what were the ingredients."
She picked up a bun and examined it critically. "Cooking is like magic. A cake is more than butter and sugar and flour. When you bake them they become something else. A cake is a cake, as a mouse is a mouse and a door is a door. You can't unmake it and get sugar, butter and flour back. It's made of cake."
How did that help me open a door? A cake is a cake, a door is a door.
I had once sealed a door in my flat by imagining the door nailed shut. That had worked fine, so why didn't it work when I wanted a door open?
You're trying too hard.
I placed my hand on the door. It was a locked door. I wanted an open door.
It was an open door.