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First published in the USA in 2016 by Disney•Hyperion,
an imprint of Disney Book Group
First published in Great Britain 2016
by Egmont UK Limited
The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN
Copyright © 2016 Robert Beatty
The moral rights of the author and illustrators have been asserted
First e-book edition 2016
ISBN 978 1 4052 8415 8
eISBN 978 1 7803 1755 7
www.egmont.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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This book is dedicated to you, the readers who helped spread the word about Serafina and the Black Cloak, and in so doing, made this second book possible.
And to Jennifer, Camille, Genevieve, and Elizabeth:
My co-conspirators, co-creators, and the loves of my life.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
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18
19
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52
An Invitation to Biltmore
Acknowledgements
Back series promotional page
Biltmore Estate
Asheville, North Carolina
1899
Three weeks after defeating
the Man in the Black Cloak
Serafina stalked through the underbrush of the moonlit forest, slinking low to the ground, her eyes fixed on her prey. Just a few feet in front of her, a large wood rat gnawed on a beetle he’d dug up. Her heart beat strong and steady in her chest, marking her slow and quiet creep towards the rat. Her muscles buzzed, ready to pounce. But she did not rush. Swivelling her shoulders back and forth to fine-tune the angle of her attack, she waited for just the right moment. When the rat bent down to pick up another beetle, she leapt.
The rat caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye just as she sprang. It was beyond her ken why so many animals of the forest froze in terror when she pounced. If death by tooth and claw came leaping at her out of the darkness, she’d fight. Or she’d run. She’d do something. Little woodland creatures like rats and rabbits and chipmunks weren’t known for their boldness of heart, but what was freezing in sheer terror going to do?
As she dropped onto the rat, she snatched him up quicker than a whiskerblink, and clutched him in her hand. And now that it was well past too late, he started squirming, biting and scratching, his furry little body becoming a wriggling snake, his tiny heart racing at a terrific pace.
There it is, she thought, feeling the thumpty-thumpty of his heartbeat in her bare hand. There’s the fight. It quickened her pulse and stirred her senses. Suddenly, she could detect everything in the forest around her – the sound of a tree frog moving on a branch thirty feet behind her, the reedy buzz of a lonely timberdoodle in the distance, and the glimpse of a bat swishing through the starlit sky above the broken canopy of the trees.
It was all for practice, of course, the prowling and the pouncing, the stalking of prey and the snatching hold. She didn’t kill the wild things she hunted, didn’t need to, but they didn’t know that, darn it! She was terror! She was death! So why at the last moment of her attack did they freeze? Why didn’t they flee?
Serafina sat down on the forest floor with her back against an old, gnarled, lichen-covered oak tree and held the rat in a clenched fist on her lap.
Then she slowly opened her hand.
The rat darted away as fast as he could, but she snatched him up and brought him back to her lap again.
She held him tight for several seconds and then opened her hand once more.
This time, the rat did not run. He sat on her hand, trembling and panting, too confused and exhausted to move.
She lifted the terrified rodent a little closer, tilted her head and studied him. The wood rat didn’t look like the nasty grey sewer varmints she was used to catching in the basement of Biltmore Estate. This particular rat had a scarred tear in his left ear. He’d encountered some trouble before. And with his dark little eyes and the tremulous whiskers of his long, pointy nose, he seemed more like a cute, chubby brown mouse than the proper vermin on which she had earned her title. She could almost imagine a little hat on his head and a buttoned vest. She felt a pang of guilt that she’d caught him, but she also knew that if he tried to run again her hand would snatch him up before she even thought about it. It wasn’t a decision. It was a reflex.
As the little rat tried to catch his breath, his eyes darted to and fro for a way out. But he didn’t dare. He knew that as soon as he tried to run, she’d grab him again; that it was the nature of her kind: to play with him, to paw him, to claw him, until he was finally dead.
But she looked at the rat and then set him on the forest floor. ‘Sorry, little fellow – just practising my skills.’
The rat gazed up at her in confusion.
‘Go ahead,’ she said gently.
The rat glanced towards the thistle thicket.
‘There ain’t no trick in it,’ she said.
The rat didn’t seem to believe her.
‘You go on home, now,’ she told him. ‘Just move slowly away at first, not too fast – that’s the way of it. And keep your eyes and ears open next time, even if you got a beetle to chew on, you hear? There are far meaner things in these woods than me.’
Astonished, the torn-eared wood rat rubbed his little paws over his face repeatedly and bobbed his head, almost as if he were bowing. She snorted a little laugh through her nose, which finally startled the rat into action. He quickly got his wits about him and scampered into the thicket.
‘Have a good evenin’, now,’ she said. She reckoned he’d bolster his memory of his courage the further he got away from her and have a good story to tell his wife and little ones by the time he got home for supper. She smiled as she imagined him telling a great and twisty tale with his family gathered around – how he was in the forest just minding his own business, gnawing on a beetle, when a vicious predator pounced upon him and he’d had to fight for his every breath. She wondered if she’d be a beast of ferocious power in the story. Or just a girl.
At that moment, she heard a sound from above like an autumn breeze flowing through the tops of the trees. But there wasn’t a breeze. The midnight air was chilled and quiet and perfectly still, like God was holding his breath.
She heard a delicate, almost gossamer, whisper-like murmur. She looked up, but all she could see were the branches of the trees. Rising to her feet, she brushed off the simple green work dress that Mrs Vanderbilt had given her the day before and walked through the forest, listening for the sound. She tried to determine the direction it was coming from. She tilted her head left and then right, but the sound seemed to have no position. She made her way over to a rocky outcropping, where the ground fell steeply away into a forested valley. From here she could see a great distance, miles yonder across the mist to the silhouettes of the Blue Ridge Mountains on the other side. A thin layer of silvery-white clouds glowing with light passed slowly in front of the moon. The brightness of the moon cast a wide-arcing halo in the feathery clouds, shone through them, and threw a long, jagged shadow onto the ground behind her.
She stood on the rocky ledge and scanned the valley in front of her. In the distance, the pointed towers and slate-covered rooftops of the grand Biltmore Estate rose from the darkness of the surrounding forest. The pale grey limestone walls were adorned with gargoyles of mythical beasts and fine sculptures of the warriors of old. The stars reflected in the slanting windowpanes, and the mansion’s gold-and copper-trimmed roofline glinted in the moonlight. There in the great house, Mr and Mrs Vanderbilt slept on the second floor, along with their nephew, her friend, Braeden Vanderbilt. The Vanderbilts’ guests – family members from out of town, businessmen, dignitaries, famous artists – slept on the third floor, each in their own luxuriously appointed room.
Serafina’s pa maintained the steam heating system, the electric dynamo, the laundry machines powered by spinning leather straps, and all the other newfangled devices on the estate. She and her pa lived in the workshop in the basement down the corridor from the kitchens, laundry rooms and storerooms. But while all the people she knew and loved slept through the night, Serafina did not. She napped on and off during the day, curled up in a window or hidden in some dark nook in the basement. At night she prowled the corridors of Biltmore, both upstairs and down, a silent, unseen watcher. She explored the winding paths of the estate’s vast gardens and the darkened dells of the surrounding forest, and she hunted.
She was a twelve-year-old girl, but she had never lived what anyone other than herself would call a normal life. She had spent her time creeping through the estate’s vast basement catching rats. Her pa, half joking when he’d said it, had dubbed her the C.R.C.: the Chief Rat Catcher. But she’d taken on the title with pride.
Her pa had always loved her and did the best he could to raise her, in his own rough-hewn way. She certainly hadn’t been unhappy eating supper with her pa each evening and sneaking through the darkness at night ridding the great house of rodents. Who would be? But deep down she’d been a fair bit lonely and mighty confused. She had never been able to square why most folk carried a lantern in the dark, or why they made so much noise when they walked, or what compelled them to sleep through the night just when all manner of things were at their most beautiful. She’d spied on the estate’s children from a distance enough to know she wasn’t one of them. When she gazed into a mirror, she saw a girl with large amber eyes, deeply angled cheekbones, and a shaggy mane of streaked brown hair. No, she wasn’t a normal, everyday child. She wasn’t an any day child. She was a creature of the night.
As she stood at the edge of the valley, she heard again the sound that had brought her there, a gentle fluttering, like a river of whispers travelling on the currents of wind that flowed high above her. The stars and planets hung in the blackened sky, scintillating as if they were alive with the spirits of ten thousand souls, but they offered no answers to the mystery.
A small, dark shape crossed in front of the moon and disappeared. Her heart skipped a beat. What was it?
She watched. Another shape passed the moon, and then another. At first, she thought they must be bats, but bats didn’t fly in straight lines like these.
She frowned, confused and fascinated.
Tiny shape after tiny shape crossed in front of the moon. She looked up high into the sky and saw the stars disappearing. Her eyes widened in alarm. But then the realisation of what she was seeing slowly crept upon her. Squinting her eyes just right, she could see great flocks of songbirds flying over the valley. Not just one or two, or a dozen, but long, seemingly endless streams of them – clouds of them. The birds filled the sky. The sound she was hearing was the soft murmur of thousands of tiny wings of sparrows, wrens, and waxwings making their autumn journey. They were like jewels, green and gold, yellow and black, striped and spotted, thousands upon thousands of them. It seemed far too late in the year for them to be migrating, but here they were. They hurried across the sky, their little wings fluttering, heading southward for the winter, travelling secretly at night to avoid the hawks that hunted the day, using the ridges of the mountains below and the alignment of the glinting stars above to find their way.
The flighty, twitching movement of birds had always tantalised Serafina, had always quickened her pulse, but this was different. Tonight the boldness and beauty of these little birds’ trek down the mountainous spine of the continent flowed through her heart. It felt as if she was seeing a once-in-a-lifetime event, but then she realised that the birds were following the path that their parents and grandparents had taught them, that they’d been flying this path for millions of years. The only thing ‘once in a lifetime’ about this was her, that she was here, that she was seeing it. And it amazed her.
Seeing the birds made her think of Braeden. He loved birds and other animals of all kinds.
‘I wish you could see this,’ she whispered, as if he was lying awake in his bed and could hear her across the miles of distance between them. She longed to share the moment with her friend. She wished he was standing beside her, gazing up at the stars and the birds and the silver-edged clouds and the shining moon in all its glory. She knew she’d tell him all about it the next time she saw him. But daytime words could never capture the beauty of the night.
A few weeks before, she and Braeden had defeated the Man in the Black Cloak and had torn the Black Cloak asunder. She and Braeden had been allies, and good friends, but it sank in once again, this time even deeper than before, that she hadn’t seen him in several nights. With every passing night, she expected a visit at the workshop. But each morning she went to bed disappointed, and it left her with biting doubts. What was he doing? Was something keeping him from her? Was he purposefully avoiding her? She’d been so happy to finally have a friend to talk to. It made her burn inside to think that maybe she was just a novelty to him that had worn off, and now she was left to return to her lonely nights of prowling on her own. They were friends. She was sure of it. But she worried that she didn’t fit in upstairs in the daylight, that she didn’t belong there. Could he have forgotten about her so quickly?
As the birds thinned out and the moment passed, she looked across the valley and wondered. After defeating the Man in the Black Cloak, she reckoned herself one of the Guardians, the marble lions that stood on either side of Biltmore’s front doors, protecting the house from demons and evil spirits. She imagined herself the C.R.C. of not just the small, four-legged vermin, but of intruders of all kinds. Her pa had always warned her about the world, of the dangers that could ensnare her soul, and after everything that had happened she was sure there were more demons out there.
For weeks now, she’d been watching and waiting, like a guard on a watchtower, but she had no idea when or in what shape the demons would come. Her darkest worry, deep down, when she faced it true, was whether she’d be strong enough, smart enough – whether she’d end up the predator or the prey. Maybe the little animals like the wood rat and the chipmunk knew that death was just a pounce away. Did they think of themselves as prey? Maybe they were almost expecting to die, ready to die. But she sure wasn’t. She had things to do.
Her friendship with Braeden had just begun, and she wasn’t going to give up on it just because they’d hit a snag. And she had only just started to understand her connection to the forest, to figure out who and what she was. And now that she’d met the Vanderbilts face to face, her pa had been pressuring her to start acting like a proper daytime girl.
Mrs V. was taking her in, always talking to her with a gentle word. Now she had the basement and the forest and the upstairs – she’d gone from having too few kin to having too many, getting pulled in three directions at once. But after years of living without any family besides her pa it felt good to be getting started with her new life.
All that was fine and good. When danger came, she wanted to fight, she wanted to live. Who didn’t? But what if the danger came so fast she never saw it coming? What if, like an owl attacking a mouse, the claws dropped from the sky and killed her before she even knew they were there? What if the real danger wasn’t just whether she could fight whatever threat that came, but whether she even recognised it before it was too late?
The more she thought about the flocks of birds she’d seen, the more it rankled her peace of mind. It was plenty warm, but she couldn’t stop thinking that December seemed far too late in the year for birds to be coming and going. She frowned and searched the sky for the North Star. When she found it, she realised that the birds hadn’t even been flying in the right direction. She wasn’t even sure they were the kinds of birds that flew south for the winter.
As she stood on the rocky edge of the high ground, the dark ooze of dread seeped into her bones.
She looked up at where the birds had been flying, and then she looked in the direction they came from. She gazed out across the top of the darkened forest. Her mind tried to work it through. And then she realised what was happening.
The birds weren’t migrating.
They were fleeing.
She pulled in a long, deep breath as her body readied itself. Her heart began to pound. The muscles of her arms and legs tightened.
Whatever it was, it was coming.
And it was coming now.
A moment later, a sound in the distance tickled Serafina’s ear. It wasn’t sparrow wings, like she’d heard before, but something earthbound. She tilted her head and listened for it again. It seemed to be coming from down in the valley.
She stood, faced the sound, and cupped her hands round the back of her ears, a trick she’d learned from mimicking a bat.
She heard the faint jangle of harnesses and the clip-clop of hooves. Her stomach tightened. It was a strange sound to encounter in the middle of the night. A team of horses pulling a carriage was making its way up the three-mile-long winding road towards the house. In the daytime, there would be nothing unusual about that. But no one ever came to Biltmore at night. Something was wrong. Was it a messenger bearing bad news? Had someone died? Was the North going to war with the South again? What calamity had befallen the world?
Pulling back from the rocky ledge, she hurried down into the valley and made her way through the forest to one of the arched brick bridges where the road crossed over the stream. She watched from the concealing leaves of the mountain laurel as an old, road-beaten carriage passed by. Most carriages had one or two horses, but this was pulled by four dark brown stallions with powerful, bulging muscles, their hides glistening with sweat in the moonlight and their nostrils flaring.
She swallowed hard. That isn’t a messenger.
Braeden had told her that stallions were wild and notoriously difficult – they kicked their handlers and bit people, and especially hated other stallions – but here were four of them pulling a carriage in unison.
When she looked at who was driving the carriage, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. The carriage bench was empty. The horses were all cantering together in a forceful rhythm, as if by the rein of a master, but there was no driver to be seen.
Serafina clenched her teeth. This was all wrong. She could feel it in her core. The carriage was heading straight for Biltmore, where everyone was fast asleep and had no idea it was coming.
As the carriage rounded a bend and went out of sight, Serafina broke into a run and followed.
She ran through the forest, tracking the carriage as it travelled down the winding road. The cotton dress Mrs Vanderbilt had given her wasn’t too long, so it was easy to run in, but keeping pace with the horses was surprisingly difficult. She tore through the forest, leaping over fallen logs and bounding over ferns. She jumped gullies and climbed hills. She took shortcuts, taking advantage of the road’s meandering path. Her chest began to heave as she pulled in great gulps of air. Despite the trepidation she had felt moments before, the challenge of keeping up with the horses made her smile and then made her laugh, which made it all the more difficult to breathe when she was trying to run. Leaping and darting, she loved the thrill of the chase.
Then, all of a sudden, the horses slowed.
Serafina pulled herself short and hunkered down.
The horses came to a stop.
She ducked behind a clump of rhododendrons a stone’s throw from the carriage and concealed herself as she tried to catch her breath.
Why is the carriage stopping?
The horses anxiously shifted their hooves, and steam poured from their nostrils.
Her heart pounded as she watched the carriage.
The handle of the carriage door turned.
She crouched low to the ground.
The carriage door swung slowly open.
She thought she could see two figures inside, but then there was a roil of darkness like she’d never seen before – a shadow so black and fleeting that it was impossible for even her eyes to make it out.
A tall and sinewy man in a wide-brimmed leather hat and a dark, weather-beaten coat emerged from the carriage. He had long, knotty grey hair and a grey moustache and beard that reminded her of moss hanging from a craggy tree. As he climbed down from the carriage and stood on the road, he held a gnarled walking stick and gazed out into the forest.
Behind him, a vicious-looking wolfhound slunk down from the carriage onto the ground. Then another followed. The hounds had large, lanky bodies, massive heads with black eyes, and ratty, thick blackish-grey fur. Five dogs in all came forth from the carriage and stood together, scanning the forest for something to kill.