The Great Ellini (Book One of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Nine: The Faculty of Demonic Speculation

They stepped onto Holywell Street—or Un-holywell Street, or Ne'er-Do-Well Street, as it had been variously dubbed since the Faculty of Demonic Speculation had moved in there. It was a road of blue-white Georgian buildings, which eventually gave way to the high, sheer, gothic walls of New College. The Georgian buildings hung on across the street, cowering in its frightful shade.

The Faculty of Demonic Speculation was the last Georgian house before the gaunt, gothic cliffs of New College. It was as beautiful as the others, with its large, sunshine-laced sash windows—the kind you had to hoist upwards like a weightlifter with a pair of dumbbells. But little details here and there—the barred windows and padded walls, the fact that all the chairs had leather straps on the armrests—provided stark reminders of the building's original purpose.

When they reached the steps leading up to the front door, Sam pulled Ellini aside, wincing at the way she jumped. "Anyone who assaults you will be arrested."

"Oh?" she said, scratching her elbow absent-mindedly. "That's good."

"And, likewise, if you use your... whatever it is... to hurt other people, you will be arrested, too. And I don't care if I have to arrest the whole bloody city. We will have peace in Oxford."

"Yes, sir," said Ellini. It looked as though she was resisting the urge to salute. "Please don't worry, though. I'm not here to cause trouble."

No, he thought, as he climbed the steps to the Faculty's forbidding front door. She wasn't here for trouble, was she? She radiated inoffensiveness, bit back her words, and made irrelevant jokes whenever anyone tried to speak to her seriously. She was being very careful. But what was she trying to be careful about?

He pushed through the front door, which was—to his extreme irritation—unlocked. He was here to check that the place was secure, and it had fallen at the first hurdle. And nobody was going to understand how serious that was.

He blundered into the amulets as soon as he crossed the threshold, though he knew he should have been expecting them. They were ubiquitous in Oxford—a strange curtain of superstition that guarded every doorway and window, no matter how supposedly rational the purpose of the building. Infirmaries and department stores all had their amulets. Even new-breeds hung them in their houses, forgetting that the original purpose of the amulets had been to ward new-breeds away.

Dr Petrescu was in the entrance hall—he had obviously been waiting for them—and he started forwards when Sam walked into the amulets.

"I'm so sorry, Inspector. The servants insist."

Sam just grunted. He didn't bother with reproaches, because he knew. He knew how hard he'd had to fight to have the amulets removed from the station—and there were still a couple hanging in the cells, beside the barred windows, because the prisoners moaned and wailed and refused to sleep in a room without them.

Jack, who had followed behind him, reached up into the clinking canopy of amulets and snatched one down.

"This one's new, isn't it?"

Dr Petrescu winced. "It's very old, Jack. Sixteenth century." And Sam knew by this that the man was on edge, because, for Oxford, the sixteenth century wasn't old at all. "From the Basque region of Southern France. The inscription says that it burns the flesh of the godless ones and all their descendants."

Jack looked tactfully down at his unscathed hands. "It's not working."

"I know that, Jack," said Dr Petrescu, snatching the amulet out of his hands. "If I didn't know that, I wouldn't have left it lying around in here, because you touch everything."