Beyond the Longcase Clock

Prologue

In the ancient city of Kish on the banks of the River Euphrates, the night-time breeze blew across the densely packed buildings, cooling them after a day of baking in the sun. While the rest of the city’s inhabitants slept, the priestess Gemeti sat cross-legged on the flat roof of her quarters, watching as the moon crested the horizon. Her astrology tutor had said there would be a lunar eclipse. A blood moon. It was a sight not to be missed.

Gemeti lived inside the vast temple complex that towered over the modest streets of Kish. Her position was highly coveted by young girls across the city. With it came honour, prestige and eventually power. At seventeen she was the youngest of the priestesses, only ordained a year earlier, following a decade of training and study. She had been selected for training on the basis of a prophetic dream she’d had at the age of six. Seers were highly valued in her community, and the majority went into the priesthood.

She scrambled to her feet and climbed down the ladder into her quarters below. Pulling her scarf over her head, she slipped on her sandals, grabbed her satchel and hurried out of the door. The courtyard was empty, but the breeze carried the sounds of snores and hushed conversations. Gemeti skirted the open space, keeping to the shadows until she was out on the street.

The ziggurat, an imposing terraced pyramid and house of Zababa, god of war and the patron god of the city, rose like a mountain from the earth. It was a sacred place, and only members of the priesthood were permitted to ascend its steep stairs. Gemeti meandered her way between the residential buildings towards the bottom of the vast staircase. She was destined for the shrine on the uppermost tier, because she wanted to be as close to the blood moon as possible. She scaled the steps quickly at first, glancing around for onlookers, but slowed to a plod about halfway up.

The tiers of the ziggurat grew shallower as she rose, but even the uppermost tier, which supported the shrine, was the height of several men. She suppressed a yawn as she entered, hoping that Zababa would forgive her when she presented her offering. Her father had asked her to pray for her family, and for their success in battle. She was from a wealthy trading clan, and her ambitious father had bribed the general into giving her brother a position of authority in the Emperor’s army. He would soon be leading a contingent to fight against a neighbouring city to the north. It was his first opportunity in this leadership role, and he needed all the help he could get.

Gemeti kneeled before the screen that shielded the statue of Zababa from view, and announced her presence. The Entu – high priestess – Nidintu forbade her from passing behind the screen. It was a privilege afforded to only the most senior of the priesthood, and Gemeti was a long way off that. The punishment for disobeying this rule was severe; the perpetrator would be thrown into the river as a test of their innocence. Drown and you were guilty; swim to shore and you were innocent. Yet she felt that she had no choice but to continue. Her parents were desperate for her brother’s success.

Nidintu had been appointed high priestess because she was the niece of the Emperor. Aside from her powerful connections, she was not one to be messed with. Gemeti remembered when a priest had accused Nidintu of consorting with demons. The case went to trial, and as no evidence could be found, he was sentenced to death for the false accusation. Gemeti suspected that the priest had told the truth.

She shuddered as she pattered around the screen and kneeled at the statue’s feet. It stood tall and imposing, yet Gemeti couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. The tales and rumours of its grandeur had been blown out of all proportion. She opened her satchel, removing a loaf of bread and unwrapping a slab of smoked meat, which she laid ceremoniously on the plinth. The responsibility of feeding and clothing the living god lay with the Entu. Gemeti was usually relegated to playing music during Zababa’s mealtimes, untrusted to come within six feet of the screen. She sat murmuring her prayers of strength and protection for her brother for a few minutes before retreating so that Zababa could eat in privacy.

The night sky drew her outside, and she skirted around the shrine to be out of view of the stairs. She would return later to collect Zababa’s leftovers so there would be no evidence of her prohibited escapade.

The moon was higher in the sky now but was not yet stained crimson by the Earth’s shadow. Gemeti looked about her for somewhere to hide. Her eyes followed the sloping bricks up the side of the shrine, and she wondered whether she could climb it. From what finer spot could one view the blood moon than the top of the world?

With some difficulty, she clambered up the side and heaved herself onto the roof. The breeze whipped her scarf against her face and she removed it, clutching it in her hand with arms outstretched as the wind blew through her hair. After a while she grew tired, placed her scarf on the flat roof and lay on top of it, staring up at the firmament.

It wasn’t until she heard voices that she realised she had fallen asleep. She sat up, forgetting for a moment where she was. The moon had dimmed to a dusky orange, and a few hours had passed. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and crawled to the edge of the roof. The view below caused her heart to leap into her throat.

Nidintu was wandering about on the large terrace below. She was preparing for a spell, although Gemeti didn’t know what kind. Witchcraft was forbidden throughout the city and punishable by death, but she had heard rumours of its use among the priesthood. Nidintu had created a seven-pointed star on the ground around the circular firepit, with neat lines of black sand criss-crossing it.

On each point of the heptagram stood a child lashed to a post, some drugged and unconscious, some silently weeping. Nidintu made the final adjustments to the set-up, pouring more sand and stoking the fire. She looked up at the moon, and seeing the edge of the shadow creep across its face, she began her incantation.

Nidintu stood at the edge of the star, closed her eyes and raised her hands in the air.

I call on you, Mammetum, goddess of fate. I call you forth from Irkalla. Hear my prayer and grant my wish. Accept my offering of seven innocents, one to honour each of the great celestial bodies. First Sîn, the moon god, god of fertility and prosperity…

Nidintu lit the torch fixed to the top of the post of the first child and moved to the second as she introduced the relevant gods.

Next, Šamaš, the sun god…

Gemeti had to do something. She didn’t know what the Entu was hoping to achieve, but she understood it must be a powerful spell if it involved the sacrifice of seven children. Besides, this was magic, and therefore illegal. She considered running to get help, but by the time she reached the residential quarters, Nidintu’s spell would be long finished.

She scrambled back to the other side of the roof and swung her legs over the precipice. Her vision swirled about her and she collapsed to the side, hugging the low wall for dear life. The climb up had been difficult, but in her tired state, she had not considered the descent.

Nidintu’s voice rang out. Ninurta, god of war and hunting…

Gemeti squeezed her eyes tighter for a final second. She had to climb down to stop Nidintu. She rolled onto her stomach and felt around with her foot for somewhere to rest her weight. Her hands shook and her legs wobbled. Inch by inch she scraped her way down to the terrace. When she landed at the bottom, she crept around the side and peeked around the corner.

Nidintu’s golden diadem glittered in the firelight. She lit the final torch and said, To Nergal, god of plague.

Gemeti stared at the proceedings. She didn’t understand what Nidintu was trying to achieve and was unsure of the best way to stop it.

The sky darkened and Gemeti looked to the moon. The Earth cast its shadow, enveloping the orb in a fiery crimson dusk. Now that everything was arranged, the sacrifice would begin.

Nidintu lifted her arms in the air, appealing to the goddess of fate. Mammetum, I seek your wisdom, your power. Bestow upon me the gift of providence. Make a disciple of me, a sister of your will. Allow me the power to seek the future and voyage into the past, so that I may carry out your wishes in corporeal form. O mighty Mammetum, accept my first sacrifice in the name of Sîn…

Nidintu pulled a dagger from her belt and slit the throat of the first child. Gemeti suppressed a cry, clutching at the amulet around her neck. She watched aghast as Nidintu progressed around the heptagram, cutting in the name of each of the gods. The blood appeared black in the firelight as Nidintu collected it from each of the victims in a chalice before returning it to the fire in the centre. With both hands she held the chalice up to the sky, the blood moon reflecting in the sacrificial liquid.

Spurred from her paralysis, Gemeti sprinted to the first boy and wrapped her scarf around his neck. His cut was not deep, and it would take him a long time to bleed to death.

I offer myself to you, Mammetum, said Nidintu, facing away and unaware of the intruder. Let me be your vessel. She lowered the cup to her lips and took a sip.

The fire spurted upwards, sending sparks across the star. Gemeti would not let Nidintu become the vessel of Mammetum. There was a wickedness in her that, if fuelled by the power of a god, would bring nature to her knees. Gemeti crept forward, picked up the dagger stained with the blood of seven innocents, and plunged it into the back of the high priestess. The chalice clattered to the floor.

A light erupted from Nidintu’s core, so bright that Gemeti threw herself to the ground and shielded her eyes. The glare illuminated the terrace like lightning, and as she lay on the black sand of the heptagram, Gemeti watched through her fingers as it radiated out towards the victims. She ducked as it swept over her in a wave, the pressure causing her ears to pop. Darkness fell and she raised her head. Nidintu lay still and dull beside the fire. The seven children glowed, their skin iridescent before gradually fading to pallor.

Gemeti crawled over to Nidintu and rolled her onto her side. Her eyelids fluttered.

You play with fire, priestess, Nidintu croaked. The power of Mammetum is eternal, and unstable when split. Part of me is with them now. My spirit is wedded to Mammetum’s gift, and when each child dies, I will find another host. A chiliad of hosts may pass, but my spirit will reunite. I shall be as Mammetum intended.

Her face stilled and her eyes stared upwards, unmoving. Gemeti checked Nidintu for a pulse but the Entu was dead.

If what she’d said was true, Nidintu’s soul would live on in each of the children, passing to another person at death, for one thousand iterations, providing them with an unknown power bestowed by Mammetum.

A groan from behind her reminded Gemeti of more urgent matters. As she freed the children and tended to their wounds, she vowed that she would not rest until the power of Mammetum was dispatched back into the netherworld.

Chapter One

Sophia glanced over her shoulder. The shop was empty, and all she could hear was the pattering of rain against the window. Hopefully, the miserable weather would discourage potential customers from venturing out of their homes. Her father, Stuart, had recently acquired a watch and was repairing it in the workshop that opened on the back of the sales floor. She placed the cloth and the glass cleaner down on the cabinet.

It was the perfect opportunity.

Sophia slid open the back of the glass cabinet, wincing as the mahogany frame groaned slightly. She thought the whole shop could do with refurbishment. It had been in Sophia’s family for generations.

MacAskie & Sons, est. 1923, Jewellery and Fine Antiques.

Many of the original fixtures remained, which Sophia supposed was appropriate, if musty. Not much good for sneaking around though. Everything creaked.

Peering over her shoulder a second time for good measure, Sophia reached into the cabinet and picked up the brooch. Her hands tingled as she held it up to the light. The large oval amethyst was set in gold and surrounded by two rings of seed pearls. The sign that sat next to it on the plush velvet described it as Victorian. Sophia weighed it in her hand. It was heavy, and she wondered how anyone could wear it without it tearing their clothes.

She froze as a noise caught her attention. It was fast, upbeat. Thrumming in time with her heart. A piano. Saxophone. Jazz music. Her father must have put it on while he was working, which was unusual, as he liked to listen for the bell above the entrance door alerting him to customers. At least it would cover any noise she might make.

Sophia had been drawn to the brooch the moment she saw it, when she and her brother were dropped off by their mother at the shop last week. It had glinted in the sunshine and Sophia had pressed her nose to the window, gawking at it. Her father said it had been auctioned off in a house sale when an old lady died a few months ago. It was a bargain, he said.

Sophia stepped over to a free-standing mirror and held the brooch to her chest, debating whether her thin top would cope with the weight. A warm draught blew against the skin on her forearms, at odds with the weather outside. Perhaps there would be a thunderstorm if it was this muggy. Sophia pulled her top away from her chest to cool herself. She felt sticky.

A hint of lavender wafted past. Sophia sniffed and wrinkled her nose. The scent seemed to be coming from the brooch. She’d never realised that jewellery could absorb smells. Lavender she usually liked, as it reminded her of her grandma, but now it was making her queasy. Her stomach gave a lurch and Sophia pressed a hand to her mouth.

The room spun. Feeling disorientated, she leaned on the frame of the mirror. Perhaps if she focused on something, the spinning would stop. Looking in the mirror was not such a good idea; the reflection of the room spinning was even worse. The blood pumped in her ears to the beat of the music. Had her dad turned up the radio? Sophia closed her eyes for a few seconds until her balance returned.

She reopened them and sucked in a huge gasp of air. Her peripheral vision was a blur, but directly in front of her, she could see the back of a woman who was sitting at a dressing table, looking in the mirror perched on top, which Sophia was sure hadn’t been there before. Maybe she hadn’t been paying much attention to her surroundings earlier. The shop was often so full of random furniture that it appeared as if things sprouted up while one’s head was turned.

The woman didn’t notice Sophia. Her blonde hair was short and waved, cropped close to her head, revealing a slender neck. She hummed along to the jazz tune in the background.

Excuse me, Sophia attempted to say, only it came out as a croak. How had Sophia not noticed her before? The lady held a bottle of perfume and dabbed a little onto her wrists and behind her ears. No wonder Sophia could smell lavender. The woman must have been there all along, secreted in a corner somewhere.

Sophia tried to back away but found her feet rooted to the spot. The room was a hazy shimmer of colour. Only the woman was visible clearly.

The lady picked up the brooch from the dressing table in front of her and pinned it to her dress. Sophia was sure she hadn’t put it down. She squeezed her hand, and the points of the metal pressed into her flesh.

How does she have an identical brooch? wondered Sophia.

She crouched down so she could see the reflection in the mirror more clearly. The woman leaned in and applied some rouge to her cheeks, her bright blue eyes gazing critically at her face. She still hadn’t noticed Sophia. Sophia leaned down further to get the lady’s attention, but her chest tightened when she noticed her reflection was missing.

Sophia glanced down at her body, relieved to find it was still visible, if a little blurry. In the mirror, beyond the woman’s reflection, was a faint outline of a girl. Sophia checked behind her but only saw a swirl of colour. She leaned towards the mirror as the girl’s reflection solidified. She had long brown hair and fair skin. A smattering of freckles across the cheeks. With a jolt Sophia realised she was seeing herself.

Whatever was happening had to stop. Sophia tried again to force her feet back, but they were still glued in place. She felt weak at the knees and her stomach churned.

Sophia? said a faint voice, drowning in the sound of the music.

She spun her head around, searching for the source of the voice. She realised it was her father. He’d kill her if he caught her with the brooch.

The brooch, thought Sophia. Maybe that’s what’s causing this.

She knew she needed to let go of it as soon as possible, but if she dropped it, it would get damaged. Sophia shivered at the thought of how many days’ work it would take to repay her father if she broke it. Sophia reached out for where she thought the cabinet was in the swirling fog of colour, and her empty hand knocked into the glass.

As her grip on the brooch loosened, so did the hold on her feet. She stumbled forward towards the cabinet and something grabbed her wrist, prising the brooch from her hand.

Sophia, what are you doing? As soon as her hand disconnected from the brooch, the swirling colours transformed into a swirling shop. Her father loomed over her with his eyes narrowed.

You’re supposed be cleaning the glass, not playing with the antiques. Do you know how old this is? This is an 1873 antique brooch in excellent condition. It’s fragile and you could have scratched or broken it.

The twitch below her father’s left eye started up. Sophia anticipated a lecture. She leaned over and rested her hands on her knees, taking deep breaths to slow the spinning.

Are you okay? asked Dad as he put the brooch back on its velvet cushion. You’re looking a wee bit green.

I’m fine, said Sophia. Just dizzy. Probably just need some fresh air.

They both looked out of the window at the rain bouncing off the pavement.

You look clammy, Dad said, holding his hand to Sophia’s forehead. I think you might have a temperature.

No, Dad, I’m fine, honestly. Sophia did not want her dad to think she was ill. He wasn’t the best nurse, often getting panicky when either she or her brother had even the slightest cold. Sophia and Oscar had spent only their holidays in Edinburgh with their father since the divorce, and he worried their mother would think he wasn’t looking after them properly if they got ill.

She tried to change the subject. Where did that woman go?

What woman? he asked, looking around. The shop was empty. Had she just disappeared?

The blonde one, in the dress? said Sophia. I’m sure I saw…

Right, no more work for you. If it wasn’t for the fact that you look like death warmed up, I would assume that your imagination has run away with itself again.

He slid the cabinet door closed and locked it, tucking the keys into his pocket.

I just hope you’re not hallucinating, he said under his breath.

Hey, I heard that! Sophia agreed that she had a tendency to daydream, but she was sure what she’d just seen wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

Up to bed. Now.

Sophia groaned. As boring as she found it, working in her dad’s shop had been a good way to earn money.

But, Dad, I need money for climbing—

You’ll have plenty of time to earn extra money this summer. One day off won’t do you any harm. He took her by the shoulders and guided her through the maze of furniture and display cabinets towards the workshop.

Sophia looked over her shoulder at him as he pushed her along. Can’t I just have a break and come back in an hour or so? I’m sure I’ll feel better later.

He pulled open the door that led to the flat above. Nope. Get up those stairs, now. I’ll come and tuck you in if I have to.

Ugh, Dad, I’m fifteen. I don’t need tucking up in bed.

He just raised his eyebrow to emphasise his threat.

All right, I’m going, I’m going…

I’ll be up to check on you soon.

Chapter Two

Sophia stared up at the poster tacked to the sloping ceiling of her attic bedroom. It showed her two favourite female climbers tackling one of the terrifying big-wall routes in Yosemite. Over the past few years, Sophia had been covering the faded Winnie-the-Pooh wallpaper that adorned the walls and the sloped parts of the ceiling with posters taken from climbing magazines. Her room at her mother’s house was more to her liking. There was nowhere to bang your head, and it had been stylishly decorated a year ago.

After an hour-long snooze, Sophia’s stomach had settled and she felt better. Yet she still lay on her bed in case her dad popped up like he’d threatened to. She fumbled around for her phone so she could listen to some music and noticed she had a message from her friend Lilly.

See you at the climbing wall in an hour?

Sophia chewed on the inside of her cheek. She had agreed to go climbing with Lilly a week ago. Lilly was one of her few friends in Edinburgh, and she was infatuated with Dean, one of the climbing instructors at the local wall. He was nineteen years old and had recently qualified. Lilly had insisted that she and Sophia sign up for an improvers’ course a few weeks ago, once she found out that Dean would instruct it.

Sophia was part way through writing a reply saying she had to stay in when another message came through.

You haven’t forgotten, have you? You promised, remember?

She considered asking her dad whether she could go but realised that would be a non-starter. The whole experience earlier was bizarre. Her rapid recovery puzzled her. And what had happened to that woman? Sophia realised she needed to talk to someone about it, and that someone was Lilly. They had shared all their secrets growing up, so if anyone would understand, it would be her.

Perhaps she could go along for an hour and get back before Dad closed up the shop.

Sophia replied to say she was coming, and hauled herself off the bed, collecting her climbing gear from around the room. It was messy as usual. Sophia found her rucksack, pulled out her rock shoes from under the bed and found her harness in the pile of clothes that had collected next to her washing basket. She had a habit of throwing her clothes at it across the room, but half the time she missed and was too lazy to pick them up.

She had everything together except her sport rope and her purse, which she retrieved from the laundry basket, tipping out the contents on her desk. Five pounds and seventy-three pence, four euros and nineteen cents (from her last trip to France to visit her grandparents), a used tram ticket and a button. She hadn’t realised her funds had got so depleted.

Sophia changed into a T-shirt and leggings, and arranged her bed so it looked like she might be sleeping under the duvet. She went to collect her rope from its usual place on top of the wardrobe only to find it missing. After searching high and low, Sophia came to the inevitable conclusion.

Oscar! Sophia stormed down two flights of stairs. Where are you?

In here! Her brother’s voice floated in through the dining-room door.

Have you seen my—? Ahh! Sophia swung the door open and tripped up, falling into a tangle on the floor. She lifted her head to see Oscar sitting on the dining-room table, a knife in his hand and a mess of wood shavings surrounding him.

Oscar was twelve years old and the only family member she saw every day, as they alternated between staying with their mother in Stirling, where they went to school, and their father in Edinburgh during the holidays and on occasional weekends.

Sophia pulled herself to her feet and realised that Oscar had used her sport climbing rope to construct a fence around the table using the dining chairs.

What the hell are you doing? Sophia asked, lowering her voice in case Dad heard her.

Carving, said Oscar, hiding under his dark fringe.

Sophia took a deep breath. I meant with my rope.

He shrugged. Oh, I was just practising my knots for Scouts.

So you had to use my sport rope? said Sophia, waving her arm. Couldn’t you have used string?

Oscar looked up. String’s not big enough.

Sophia held her hand to her head. Oscar, you can’t just go into my room and take my stuff.

But I didn’t, said Oscar, mouth gaping. You left your rope in the living room.

Did I? thought Sophia.

She picked at the knots, freeing the rope. "Look, this is an expensive piece of equipment. Safety equipment. You do realise that if you damage this, I might seriously injure myself?"

Oscar rolled his eyes. Stop worrying. It’s fine. I thought you were supposed to be in bed, anyway. Dad said you’re ill.

Sophia avoided his gaze as she searched for the ink marking at the middle of the rope. Well, I’m better now.

Are you going climbing? asked Oscar.

Mind your own business, said Sophia, taking coils over her shoulders.

I’ll tell Dad…

Sophia gave Oscar an icy stare. That’s a sharp-looking knife you’ve got there. Does Dad know you have it?

He gave it to me, said Oscar.

Oh, really? Like I gave you my rope?

You’re giving me your rope? Thanks, Sophia!

Sophia’s nostrils flared. No, I am not giving… Look, if you tell Dad I’ve gone out, I’ll tell him you nicked his knife.

He’ll notice anyway, said Oscar.

Not until he closes the shop. If he asks how I am, say I’m sleeping and don’t want to be disturbed. Okay?

Tell him yourself.

Sophia spun around at the sound of her father’s voice. Dad! I, um, was feeling a bit better, so I thought I would—

Oh no, you don’t. Do you really think I’d let you go climbing when you’ve been feeling dizzy? What kind of father do you think I am?

I…

Or were you going to forego asking and sneak out?

What? No, of course not…

"Come on, back