Dead Silent Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Sneak peek

  Copyright

  If you liked this you’ll love…

  PROLOGUE

  It had to be here.

  The soles of his shoes squeaked from marble to wood as he ran between the choir stalls, swinging the torch beam like a whip that could beat back the night.

  How could he have been so stupid as to lose the book? If he didn’t find it he was dead.

  A faint scuffling noise brought him to a halt. Shit! His fingers fumbled to shut off the torch. The light died and he stood frozen, holding his breath. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the gloom. He could pick out strange shapes in the darkness, but none of them moved.

  He was being an idiot. There was no one there. The noise was probably just a mouse or a rat. Places like this had to be teeming with vermin.

  He sucked in a deep breath of cool air that smelled of snuffed-out candles and damp stone, switched on the torch and resumed his search.

  Soon the college porters would start their rounds – unlocking doors and doing security checks. The last thing he needed was to land in the crapper for breaking into the chapel. Not that he’d needed to break in: he had a key – but he could hardly tell that to the proctor.

  Quickly, he found the choir stall where he’d been sitting earlier that evening. He kneeled down and felt beneath the bench. No, nothing there but grit and dust. Maybe he’d kicked it further along.

  He stretched as far as he could reach. Suddenly something tickled against his face, almost as if a spider had run out from its secret hiding place and made an escape across his skin. He shot to his feet, wiped his cheek with the sleeve of his dinner jacket and spat away the clinging stickiness from his cold-cracked lips.

  As he ran a hand over his face to check that the thing had gone, the torch beam caught something startlingly white, falling like a snowflake onto the oak choir stall.

  A feather.

  Large, white and downy. A goose feather? Where the hell had that come from?

  He swung the torch at the beamed ceiling but there was no bird. Of course there was no bird. The only thing in here with wings was the Archangel Michael slaying the red-faced devil in the twenty-feet-tall painting above the altar, and he very much doubted that old bastard was moulting. It must have blown in, got caught somewhere.

  He sighed. There was no bird in here. And no book.

  Maybe he’d left it in the Old Kitchen…or the bar. Yeah, he could have left it in the bar, which meant anyone could have it. Damn it!

  His shoes, still wet with melting snow, squeaked against the marble floor as he marched towards the door, the torchlight bobbing in front of him. He’d go back to the bar. With any luck someone would have had handed it in without realising what it contained.

  There was a soft clunk somewhere just behind him and to his left, like someone had banged into something.

  He froze.

  ‘Hello?’ He swung the torch beam in the direction of the noise.

  The chapel was silent again. But there was someone there, watching him. He could feel it, like icy fingertips tracing down his spine.

  Probably someone saw him coming in here and thought it would be funny to put the frighteners on him. Bastards!

  Even if it was someone having a laugh, it didn’t stop his pulse thumping against the collar of his high-winged shirt. ‘I’m about to lock up,’ he said, hoping the threat would draw out the prankster.

  The only reply came in the form of a loud clinking noise that echoed around the chapel as if someone was dragging chains across the floor.

  He spun around, cutting through the dark with the beam of light. What the hell was going on?

  Nothing. He couldn’t see a damned thing. He forced himself to be still and listen.

  Nothing moved. But he could hear something. Something that sounded like…breathing.

  Adrenaline burned like acid through his veins and he ran.

  He hadn’t gone far when a blow to the side of his head sent him reeling. He crashed to the floor, grunting in pain as his shoulder crunched against marble. He rolled onto his back. The torch beam swung up to the painting, illuminating the Archangel Michael; his golden breastplate and metal-tipped spear. A spear that looked like the very real one pointing at his chest.

  ‘What the…?’

  The torch slipped from his hand, there was a scuffling noise and the next second the beam was blinding him.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he gasped, squinting into the light. ‘Who are you?’

  He pushed himself onto his elbow but a foot to his stomach pinned him to the floor.

  The pain that struck his chest didn’t seem real. And as he lay there spilling hot blood onto the floor of the chapel, he didn’t think about dying. Didn’t think about all the things he would never get to do…the places he would never get to see.

  Instead, he thought about the book he had lost.

  And the oath he had broken.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘Are you sure you’re holding the map the right way up?’

  Poppy tried glaring at Michael. Instead, a guilty smile inched across her face as she kicked at the pile of slush that had collected in the gutter.

  Snowflakes the size of cotton wool balls drifted out of the night sky with haphazard elegance. Clumps of them caught in Michael’s dark hair and for a moment she could imagine that there was just the two of them, in some magical snow globe.

  Michael stared at her, his face deadly serious and his gaze so steady that she knew the game was up. ‘Poppy, have you – by any chance – been taking us in the wrong direction?’ Before she could answer, Michael rolled his eyes. ‘You can’t put off seeing your dad forever. In case you haven’t noticed the cold white stuff, it’s snowing, and I’d rather not spend the night out here.’

  ‘But don’t you think it’s pretty?’

  Michael turned his face to the heavens as a smile tugged at his lips. He shook his head. ‘You’re unbelievable. Where are we?’

  ‘Not in Kansas any more.’

  He grinned. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Somewhere in Cambridge?’ Poppy said, shrugging and taking a step back.

  Michael advanced on her. ‘Where are we?’ He made a grab for the map. Poppy just managed to dodge him and set off running down the cobbled street. Her foot hit a patch of ice. She skittered to a stop as the weight of her backpack combined with gravity to tug her towards the ground. A hand grabbed her arm just in time to stop her from toppling over and, before she could object, the map was snatched from her grasp.

/>   Michael’s smile was victorious and just a little bit cocky. Oh, how she’d love to wipe that smile off his face – and maybe she would…tonight.

  There was no room for them to stay at Dad’s so he’d arranged for her and Michael to stay in guest rooms at the college where he worked. Student rooms. Where there would be no parental supervision. And that presented them with certain…possibilities. A shiver of nervous energy tingled up her spine.

  Michael looked at her strangely. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  He smiled and brushed away a flake of snow that landed on her upturned cheek. ‘Please tell me you know where we are.’

  Time to put him out of his misery. ‘That’s King’s College,’ she said, nodding down the alleyway.

  Michael’s eyes widened. ‘Really?’ Her transgression was instantly forgotten. He stared open-mouthed like she’d just told him they’d found Atlantis. She grinned, grabbed his jacket and pulled him down the alley, past a church with a squat golden-brick tower that looked like it had been squeezed in between other buildings, and a pub where people had spilled out onto the pavement, smoking and stamping their feet against compacted snow. The street opened onto a wider road, lined with shops on one side and King’s College on the other.

  Poppy and Michael stopped.

  Carefully placed streetlamps lit the stone façade. The college looked more like a film set than an actual building, let alone a place where teenagers drank, partied and occasionally picked up a book. Everywhere, the bone-coloured stone was adorned with archways, chimneys and intricately carved turrets that seemed to have been chiselled out of the billowing snow clouds.

  She’d seen the pictures in the prospectus – Michael had kept it open on his desk for the last two months so it had been hard to miss – but the photographs hadn’t done the college justice. And for the first time she felt a small pang of jealousy that Michael might be living here in just over nine months’ time.

  She glanced up at him. His lips were parted, and his eyes clouded with dreams of his future. She was happy for him – she really was. Going to Cambridge had been his ambition since he was six years old. But a nagging, selfish voice couldn’t help complaining that after all the time it had taken for them to admit to each other that they were more than just good friends, he was going to leave. And come here. Without her!

  ‘It’s certainly impressive,’ she forced herself to say.

  Michael nodded. ‘It’s only a building, but…’ He shrugged.

  ‘There was an article in the New Scientist that said that listening to Bach can actually make you smarter – something to do with the structure and the intricacy of the patterns. I wonder if it’s the same with architecture. Because I’m pretty sure that just looking at that college could make you smarter.’

  ‘What about kissing smart girls? Does that make you smarter?’ Despite his smile, his brow creased and she wondered whether he too could hear the clock ticking down on their relationship.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never tried it.’

  ‘Nahh. Me neither.’

  Poppy whacked the back of her hand against his stomach.

  ‘Oof!’ Michael groaned, doubling over like she’d lamped him. ‘Right, that’s it!’ He looked up and grinned from beneath the sodden fringe that flopped over his eyes.

  Poppy set off, dodging between the groups of students huddled together, holding each other up after a night in the pub, their college scarves wrapped around faces and hoods, weighed down with snow. She could hear Michael’s feet pounding the road behind her, and a disgruntled someone shouting, ‘Hey! Watch where you’re going!’

  She kept running, despite the way her feet were sliding off cobbles, and took the road she thought would lead to Trinity, her dad’s college. With every step, the straps of her backpack cut deeper into her shoulders and the freezing night air stabbed her lungs with icy little daggers. She wished she had left her Mac at home, and a couple of the books weighing her down. She was almost relieved when a hand grabbed her arm and yanked her to a stop. She giggled as her legs wobbled dangerously.

  Michael’s cheeks were blotched red and he puffed out clouds of steam like a racehorse that had just won the Grand National. He grinned, and before she knew what was happening, he’d pushed her up against a shop window, his lips were on hers, and his hands seeking her body through the padded waterproof.

  All the breath that was in her disappeared, creating a vacuum; a need stronger than she’d ever felt for anyone or anything. It made her head whirl and her heart dance. Don’t stop, she wanted to tell him. Don’t ever stop. But he did.

  Michael broke the kiss and stepped back. His eyes were wide and just for a second, she thought she saw that same need in him, and like a black hole it sucked her back towards him.

  He looked away, took a deep breath and brushed his sopping hair out of his eyes. ‘Come on,’ he said, with an almost shy smile. ‘It’s this way, isn’t it?’

  She took his warm hand and they walked up the winding street in silence, as if neither one of them knew what to say about what had just happened.

  When they’d first started going out, the kissing had been a bit awkward. They’d been so careful with each other, as if after years of being best friends they were frightened of breaking this new thing that they had. But three months later that fear had melted away. And now after four months it had been replaced with something dangerous and even more scary: need.

  The snow was falling heavier now, whirling around them so fast that it was hard to see beyond the dance of the flakes. They tingled against Poppy’s cheeks and cooled her kiss-bruised lips but she felt dizzy, like she was falling with them; tossed around on waves of wanting that seemed to creep up on her and then drown her. Would tonight stop her from feeling so overwhelmed by all of this? If they just did it would she feel less out of control?

  ‘It’ll be OK,’ Michael said, softly. And for a second she thought he was talking about tonight. Oh God, did he know? Had he guessed why she’d really wanted to come with him?

  ‘Terms here are really short. And then when you go to Manchester we can see each other at weekends.’

  Oh. He was still thinking about that. ‘Yeah,’ she agreed, although she doubted it would be that simple.

  He squeezed her hand. ‘Hey, I think this is it.’

  Ahead of them was a strange building of red brick and golden stone. Between two turret-like towers was an arched oak door and above that a statue of a king who had gained a few extra pounds where the snow had clung to his waistline. The scene reminded Poppy of something from a book: the gateway to another kingdom, another world. A world she knew nothing of.

  Dad’s world.

  She sighed. She’d almost forgotten that she was about to see Dad.

  Tension knotted in her spine. Her feet stopped moving. Michael had just turned to her – no doubt with a be-nice-to-your-father lecture – when a smaller door to the right of the main entrance opened and that Other World spat out three of its creatures.

  The first was a dark-haired guy dressed in a tuxedo and bow tie that was partly undone, like someone had tugged on it, but not quite managed to unknot it. He tripped out of the door, turned and held his hand out for the next: a girl with ice-blonde hair and a red dress that, although floor-length, was slit almost to her waist and left very little to the imagination.

  The last guy had on a dinner jacket similar to his companion, but this guy had finished the look with a black gangster hat and two bottles of wine that swung from his hands like he was about to juggle with them. Instead, he took a swig from one and handed it to the girl.

  She put the bottle to her lips, threw back her head and drank. She shuddered.

  ‘Was this from the dining room? Tastes like cat’s piss!’

  The guy laughed as she turned the bottle upside down. The yellowy white wine poured out onto the ground and where it met a patch of white snow it did indeed look like something, or someone, had taken a leak.

  As the l
ast drops drained, the girl’s gaze connected with Poppy’s. She threw the empty bottle back to the gangster and walked slowly and unsteadily towards Poppy and Michael.

  ‘Well, what do we have here? Tourists?’

  Poppy exchanged a wary glance with Michael.

  ‘I’m here for an interview,’ Michael piped up.

  Snowflakes sparkled in the girl’s long, straight blonde hair, making it appear almost as white as her bloodless skin. She had the face of a doll; wide blue eyes, sweetheart lips framed by flawless porcelain.

  The girl stopped in front of them and those large blue eyes examined Poppy’s face like someone would a painting. Her expression remained fixed: inquisitive, almost perplexed. Then her gaze slid over to Michael. She was almost as tall as him and seeing this beautiful and unworldly creature toe-to-toe with her boyfriend made Poppy slightly nauseous.

  The girl reached up a hand and caressed his cheek.

  ‘The face of a poet,’ she murmured, as if lost in a dream.

  Michael swallowed, but said nothing.

  Suddenly she whirled around. ‘Snow!’ she squealed excitedly, as if noticing the weather for the first time.

  ‘What are you doing?’ one of the guys called to her, as the girl ran to a roped-off triangle of ground that Poppy imagined had once been grass before becoming a snowdrift. She hopped over the chain-link barrier and, without hesitation, flung herself backwards into the drift. Not worrying what she might be showing to the world, she began flapping her arms and legs, carving out the wings and gown of a snow angel. But her skin and hair were so pale that she seemed to disappear into the white, leaving only the red dress, a bloodstain against the snow.

  The guy with the gangster hat laughed, but the other swore under his breath and bolted over to her.

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘I’m going to be an angel!’ she said, grinning and crunching snow between her fingers like it was warm sand.

  The guy grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet.

  ‘Where’s Danny? I want my Danny,’ she said.

  The guy brushed the snow from her skin and dress, hastily took off his dinner jacket and put it around her bare shoulders. ‘He’s meeting us at the club. He had something to do.’