Free The Demon Curse by Simon Nicholson

running across it. Keeping to the shadows, he peered into the room beyond, the room in which he had just been.
    â€œHe is secure! The ropes will hold!”
    â€œThe steam chamber! Down in the mayoral bathroom!”
    â€œPerfumed steam will envelop him, pinioned though he may be! This way, gentlemen!”
    The voices floated through the gap in the door. Harry saw several orderlies trundling a wickerwork wheelchair toward the door. Tied into it with more ropes was the trembling mayor, wearing a cotton robe. The wheelchair swept out, followed by Dr. Mincing and Madame Melrose. A door slammed, and the room fell quiet. Harry swiveled around and started searching the office.
    The tiniest trace, the tiniest sign. As his eyes flicked about, Harry remembered the New York magicians he had watched time and time again—how a barely noticeable bulge in a sleeve or flutter of a finger had revealed their secrets to him, taught him tricks. He crouched down, scanning the office, which was in exactly the state Madame Melrose had described. There were papers everywhere. A few of them still lay on a mahogany desk, but the rest had been hurled all over the room, along with ledgers, books, and split-open files. Harry checked a few of the papers. Letters to hospitals, orphanages, charities. He crept around the desk to where a chair lay tipped back. Next to it, there was a patch of papers that were crushed into the rug. Harry saw that the patch formed the shape of a human body, its arms and legs outstretched.
    This was where he lay. Harry crouched over the crumpled documents. He saw other damaged papers at various points around the room. Thrown there by the thrashing arms, perhaps? He carried on examining the human shape, picking up each of the papers. He noticed, as he lifted one of them, a pen.
    He picked it up. It was an ebony fountain pen, similar to Arthur’s although with a gleaming gold nib and not remotely leaky. It was just the pen itself—there was no sign of the lid. Harry lifted more papers, searching for it. He crouched down, scanning the surrounding rug, but there was still no sign of it. Odd —but then he saw it, a tiny gleaming shape nestled beside the carved foot of a chaise longue, right on the other side of the room.
    He walked across and picked the lid up. It too was ebony, its metalwork gold. He rotated it in his fingers and stared back at the pen itself. Fifteen feet away at least. He trod back to the desk and mimed the business out, holding the lid in his hand and swinging it around, trying to calculate the speed that would be required to throw the lid as far as the chaise longue. Very fast indeed. Still, the mayor had been in the grip of a fit, so it was quite possible. Harry trod back to the chaise longue, replaced the lid where he’d found it, and searched around in the glowing light for another, more useful clue. And then his head turned so fast that the muscles in his neck hurt.
    Not a clue. But something worth noticing.
    A faint chime of metal against metal. Harry glanced around, tracing the sound to the far side of the office, where there was another door. He heard the noise again, more chiming, and knew what it was. Keys, jangling on a ring. He waited and heard a different noise, a far more alarming one.
    A key, digging into the lock.
    Harry stumbled back across the room. He heard the key turn, the mechanisms of the lock’s insides grinding. He heard the latch spring just as he was scrambling back into the dumbwaiter shaft. The door opened, and he dropped down into the darkness, holding on to the edge of the hatch. He braced his boots against the bricks, keeping his eyes just at the level of the hatch, allowing him to peer back into the office.
    Two figures edged into the room, shrouded in shadow. But Harry had already seen enough to recognize them.
    A dagger beard. And two yellowed eyes.

Chapter 8
    The two men edged into the room. For the first time, Harry saw them close up. Their