Howell is Diana Wynne Jones's, but Ian is mine! Wales is its own country.
"This is the end," Howell announced, throwing his pen down. Ian looked up from his homework.
"The end of what?"
"The end of my plan, of course. Weren't you listening?" Ian recognized Howell's I Realize That You Don't Actually Want To Do This, But You're Going To Do It Anyway look being directed at him. "I've been drawing up a list of what we're going to need. It, erm, it kind of involves that book. You remember," he gave Ian a pleading look; "that book. But you don't have to even touch it," he added hastily. "I'll do it all."
Ian hesitated. "I know you don't agree with me about it. Someday, you're going to try to do something with it, though, and you're going to break the world in half or set it on fire or something." His wide, freckled face broke into a grin. "But, you know, it's about time that this world goes up in flames."
Howell gave a loud burst of laughter, then looked around innocently as the librarian shushed him. "I knew you'd come around. It's like I'm always telling you: if you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun. So, will you meet me after your flute lesson?"
Ian refrained from reminding him that Chemistry was directly after his flute lesson.
---
"Next time," said Ian after passing the same oak tree for the third time on the way to the House, formerly known as the Lair, formerly known as the Cave of Doom, formerly known as the Super-Secret Den of the Amazing Two, generally known as That Old Wreck, It Ought To Be Demolished, "I lead and you follow."
"I'm going the right way," Howell persisted. "See, it's that brook. We've gone here thousands of times. Millions of times. Of course I know the way; don't be stupid. Don't worry so much."
"Mmm," said Ian. "Maybe it's misleading you. How long have you had this problem, sir?"
"You know, that's not a bad idea," Howell pondered as he thrashed at a branch across the path at head height. "Hey – you admitted that it does things!" He turned around and stared at Ian happily, his green eyes round.
"Did it do your hair, too?" Howell's newly inky hair had caused a lot of comment in their sleepy little Welsh town, where everyone knew everyone else and change was immediately noticed. "I don't think it did a very good job – it doesn't look natural."
"Just because something isn't natural doesn't mean it isn't good, you know – like the book. It's not natural at all, and it's still useful. There's the door, look you." The two walked down the hall, not looking at the decaying portraits that lined the walls as they bickered in a brotherly manner until arriving at the door to the once-library. "There you go: got here at last." Howell swung the door open and took the book down off the bookshelf; its clean, if scuffed and a little beaten, cover contrasted sharply with the burned pages above and below it. He quickly turned to a page a little past the halfway point – as quick, thought Ian, as though he had been turning to that page quite often recently.
Ian peered at the upside-down page and snorted in shock. "Demon Summoning? That 'kind of' involves the book? Are you insane?" The illustration, which was hand-drawn with several fine, bright inks, would have been beautiful were it not for the subject: it depicted a man being disembowelled by a beautiful and nasty looking dark-haired woman with three-foot claws.
"I've got it all planned out," Howell insisted. "I'm just going to ask it some questions about where the book comes from and then we can dismiss it."
"Why do you need me?" Ian asked, his voice rising somewhat accusatorially. "Where do I stand in Howell Jenkins's Great Scheme of Things?"
Howell blushed. "Well, you see, there needed to be a certain person present." At Ian's pointedly puzzled and exasperated look, he blushed harder and added, "A certain sort of person. You know what I mean, idiot!"
Ian rolled his eyes and folded his arms. "Fine," he said at last. "I'll stand about, but I'm not touching nothing or saying nothing."
"Fine," Howell snapped. "I don't want you touch anything. Turn the other way if you'd like." He went back to the book and began setting things from his backpack up on the scorched table. It seemed to Ian to take no time at all, and yet also an agonizing eternity of trying to force himself to say something conciliatory.
When Howell at last finished and turned around, Ian exhaled sharply and said, "Right. Sorry I'm so stupid about the book. It's my mum's fault; she's mental about magic and religion and things."
"Accepted." Ian waited for Howell's forthcoming apology about being an arse himself, which, of course, never came. Howell Jenkins had no need for apologies; he was a law unto himself. Then Ian rebuked himself: it was quite possible that Howell viewed their relationship as close enough that there was no need for apologies. He rebuked himself again for being a girl and using the word "relationship".
"It's ready," Howell called over his shoulder. "Just come a bit closer – there." He fussed at a smudge of chalk on the tabletop with his finger, and Ian peered past him at the design. It was eerily pointed and mostly made up of bluish and greenish shades. Howell noticed his curiosity and, while mercifully not making a point of Ian's interest, said conversationally, "This is actually a containment spell to keep the demon from rushing out and killing us."
"Great," said Ian. "Really wonderful." He rubbed his upper arms and looked anxiously about, half-hoping that someone would come in and stop them, half-hoping that nobody would come along until they finished – he could even begin to imagine how they'd explain what they were doing, though Howell would probably come up with something halfway plausible at the last minute.
Howell stood back from the table, brushing his hands together and placing them on his waist. He surveyed the design with satisfaction. "There – all we need is a bit of blood and the incantation and we're set."
"Blood? What d'you mean, blood? Whose blood?"
"My blood." Howell drew his pocket-knife from his school blazer. Ian caught his eye and looked pointedly at it, and Howell sighed theatrically and produced the hideous lighter he had got from a street vendor in London when they had skived off from the school trip. He lit a flame and passed the blade through it a few times, then shut it off and replaced it. Taking a deep breath and flexing his arms, Howell braced himself and held the blade at the ready. And flexed his arms again. And shook his hair out of his face as though he were frustrated with it. And moved his shoulders a bit.
Ian decided to take pity on him. He stepped forward and placed a hand on Howell's shoulder. "We can use my blood, if you don't want to cut – "
Howell shook him off angrily. "I'm fine!" he exclaimed, and slashed his palm lightly, shaking a few drops of blood onto the design on the table. He wiped the pocket-knife off on a tissue from his pocket and picked up the book, taking care to not let his cut touch it. He held it out in the way they were taught in Choir and brought his head up proudly, looking down his elegant nose at the book, and began to pronounce the incantation.
The words of the spell were the strangest things Ian had ever heard, and that included the explanation Howell had given for why they were in the second floor girls' bathroom at six in the morning before classes. They somehow twisted everything, so that one syllable took an age to fall from Howell's lips, and another sentence was finished while Howell was still opening his mouth to say it; at times, it seemed as though Howell were screaming in Ian's ear, or maybe whispering from a long distance away, or both at the same time. Ian's head began to spin, and he firmly shut his eyes and began attempting to recite "The Charge of the Light Brigade" inwardly. (What he actually ended up doing was repeating, "This is so bloody stupid," over and over.)
After a year or possibly just a few minutes, Howell snapped the book shut and transferred it fully to his right hand, which he then dropped by his side; he stretched his injured hand over the chalk design and firmly enunciated one word which seemed to turn the universe inside out, lather it thoroughly, run it through a wringer and hang it out to dry. Ian's eardrums felt as though they would burst; he started to fall to his knees, but caught himself at the last moment and stood unsteadily, staring, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, at the table, or rather, above it.
A beautiful, curvy, dark-haired, sultry, alluring, vibrant – Ian's brain began to shut down – and, above all, naked woman floated above the table. Howell looked a bit nonplussed, but blinked a few times and said, "Demon of Abaddon, I … I, um, I abjure – no, I conjure thee to tell me of the Other Worlds!"
The demon smiled slowly and batted her eyelashes a few times. "I think you're forgetting … " she prompted.
"Oh – yes! I bind thee, demon, with the Star of Moristicles and the blood of my veins to, ah, to … to remain within the Star and to answer with truth. And might I add, er, miss demon, that you've got quite ravishing lips?" Howell is flirting with a demon. A demon. He summoned a demon and has started flirting with her, thought Ian. It was a very stupid thing to do, but also so very Howell.
"Of course, … my master." Her voice was rich and smooth, like a bar of Cadbury's chocolate. She licked the ravishing lips and spoke again, Howell leaning slightly backward to watch her. "There are indeed other worlds. Many, many others. I myself have visited only a small percentage of them, but that is because there are more than even I could count. Bridging the gates between worlds is largely a matter of will – especially for one with such a large talent as yours, my master." Her eyes gleamed.
"So, I don't – I mean, I conjure thee, demon, to tell me where I might find instructions on opening these gates."
"Oh, I can tell you all of it, master. The best way is to persuade a demon; usually, one does this by offering him something he wants." She licked her lips again and looked straight into Ian's eyes. "Like a virgin's soul." Ian took half a step backward, then told himself firmly that Howell was not going to let a demon have his soul. And it would have been quite reassuring, had Howell's eyes not been fixed on her chest.
Ian let out a loud false cough, and Howell jumped. "Well, I'm quite sorry, but I'm not prepared to give that up today," he said breezily. "Is there – I mean, I conjure thee to tell me what else I may do to travel to another world."
The demon shrugged, causing a few interesting movements to her anatomy. "Find an ancient circle of power and stand in it at the moment that the sun hits the horizon on Midsummer's morn," she said, studying her black fingernails. "Of course, if one doesn't know which world one wants to go to, one can end up anywhere."
"Can one just concentrate on ending up in a world with certain characteristics, like being in the middle of a war or being populated by gypsies?"
"If one has enough will, and, of course, talent. Which you do, master. Now, are you done with me? Am I dismissed?" She ran a hand through her hair, darting looks at Ian. He wasn't quite sure why; Howell was the one with all the talent, supposedly.
"Um – yes. Yes, that's all, I think. Demon, I dismiss you back to Abaddon, and charge thee – " But the demon wasn't disappearing, wasn't spinning around in a puff of smoke, wasn't doing anything except leaping towards Ian with her hands outstretched, fingernails lengthening into claws –
Ian saw, out of the corner of his eye, Howl fling out his hands at the demon, and then her hands met his neck, and he tipped over backward and blacked out.
He came to again to find Howell's face alarmingly close and pale, eyes dark and worried. Ian pushed himself up, nearly knocking into Howell's face, and the sudden movement upward caused a rush of nausea and a flood of pain in his chest. He rolled over onto his side and clutched his middle; Howell skidded around to the other side and grasped Ian's shoulder.
"Ian? Ian, are you okay? You look at bit … a bit unwell."
"I'm not unwell, I'm bloody dying. What … what happened?"
"She went for your soul, and I had to do a bit of magic to get her off of you." Howell paused and looked excessively pleased. "It was a pretty nice bit, too, especially for someone who's still training himself, you know. Are you feeling a bit better?"
"Yeah, a bit." Ian took a few deep breaths and shut his eyes. "Just a bit traumatized. Do you have any aspirin or anything? And wasn't that Star of Something supposed to keep her in?"
"We all need a little trauma. I think I have some, but I don't have any water. And the Star … " Howell kept his face turned down as he rummaged through his knapsack for the painkiller. "When I cut my hand, the blood sort of … went a bit of all over the place. A couple of drops kind of smudged the chalk in one place, and that let her slip out when I dismissed her." He turned back to Ian with the aspirin and a contrite look. "I'm really sorry, Ian, really. I didn't know she'd be that – that hungry." He looked up from beneath the black hair hanging in his face as he handed Ian the bottle. "Forgive me?"
"You are insane, you know." Ian took a pill and swallowed it, grimacing at the feel of dry-swallowing it. "Of course I forgive you. Is it time for rugby practice yet?"
Howell grinned, suddenly looking as though he hadn't been close to grovelling a second ago. "You only call me insane because you're jealous. D'you think you're ready to play, though? You might want to go home instead."
Ian took Howell's offered hand and stood unsteadily. "Can't. I skived off last time with you to lurk in the library bathroom, remember? And I feel loads better. Really." Liar, his brain sneered. Well, he'd take the practice easy, and maybe tell Mr Ty-bont that he had the stomach-ache.
As they left the House, Ian had the fleeting thought that this whole episode might be more important than it seemed, but he pushed the thought away as Howell began talking about what he was going to write for the three-days-late-already essay in Geography.