“Ephraim,” Cora repeated. “Where is he?”
“Top of Big Ben,” James answered. “But you have to time it right. I suppose it’s why people call it the witching hour. When the clock strikes twelve, you can find him. He’ll be expecting you.”
“Midnight at Big Ben. We’ll be there,” I agreed quickly.
“Good. Because he doesn’t like waiting. Makes him nervous. Now, make sure no one sees or follows you. At the far end of the tower, there’s a tunnel. It’s unguarded at all times,” James said, nodding as he pulled a rumpled piece of paper from a drawer and handed it to Cora. “The instructions should be clear enough. Give this paper to him so he’ll know I sent you. Consider it your admission ticket.”
Cora shoved the paper into her coat pocket.
“I warn you, Ephraim will ask for payment. Not necessarily cash. But there’s always a price to pay.”
“I understand,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” James warned. “I’ve been around a lot longer than you. Remember, even if you have an antidote, it doesn’t mean the poison won’t kill you.” He stared glumly into his tea. “There’s been a war between good and evil raging on for years. Sometimes good wins, sometimes evil wins. It’s a coin toss.” As if to prove his point, he pulled a hexagonal coin from his pocket— I instantly recognized it as the one that had bought me a meal of Bengal tiger blood. He threw the coin into the air and the three of us watched it fall to the table. It landed on a side that had a complicated geometric pattern. I pulled the coin toward me and flipped it over. The other side showed the same pattern.
“Which side is which?” I asked in confusion.
James smiled. “Sometimes no one knows,” he said.
Of course. I tried to contain my frustration, but it was hard. I hadn’t come here for riddles—I came for answers. But all I was leaving with were more questions. More questions, a double-faced coin, a scrap of paper, and a mysterious name.
“Come on,” Cora said, sliding her chair away from the table and placing a hand on my shoulder. “And thank you,” she said to James.
We exited the shop. In the street, I turned back to look at it. The window was frosted and filled with cobwebs, the door covered over with boards; anyone walking by would think the building was abandoned. But wasn’t that just another one of James’s lessons? It was one I understood: Nothing is what it seems. But in this case, we were clearly on the side of good. I only hoped Ephraim would be more sympathetic to our position than James was. Because right now, this vampire-loathing witch was our only hope.
15
Cora and I avoided the tunnel for the rest of the afternoon. Without Damon, it felt too silent and empty. Instead, we wandered the streets of London as Cora told me stories about its history: that a fire had ravaged the entire city hundreds of years ago, that ravens were kept in the Tower of London in a superstitious effort to ward against the city’s destruction, and that human bodies had been sacrificed to London Bridge so it would never collapse. I wasn’t sure whether the stories were true or pulled from her imagination, but I liked listening to her lilting Irish accent. They distracted us, and I knew we both needed distraction from the very real horrors we’d encountered in this city.
But finally, we’d reached our destination: Big Ben. We arrived just as the magnificent tower clock read eleven-thirty. The structure was imposing; all sharp angles and hard surfaces. Nearby was the river, and Parliament, while Westminster Abbey was a stone’s throw away. I knew now why Big Ben was an iconic symbol of London.
“And here concludes our tour,” Cora said, gazing up at it in reverence. “I’ve never been here before.”
Surrounding the building were soldiers wearing red uniforms and black hats. Even at this late hour, they were standing sharply at attention, their eyes trained on the silent street. A lone boat sailed down the river. It looked empty, and I remembered one of the stories Cora had told me as we were walking along the docks, about ghost ships in the time of pirates on the high seas. I shivered.
Cora pulled out the worn piece of paper James had given her and smoothed it against her knee before reading aloud:
“Although it may be called Big Ben
And ring’d around by guardsmen
Take note of the things that aren’t meant to be seen
Unlike an entrance fit for a Queen
Think like a mouse or rat or flea
And at Ephraim’s entrance you’ll be.”
“Where do you think it is?” Cora asked.
“Somewhere low to the ground, most likely,” I said. I loved poetry, but it had been a while since my last encounter with nursery rhymes. We circled the clock twice, scanning the ground for an entrance. I’d had no idea Big Ben would be so heavily guarded. I’d become used to London being deserted at night. But there seemed to be no way to bypass the guards.
“Things that aren’t meant to be seen…” Cora trailed off, lost in thought. “Do you think that would be the back of the clock? That’s something that’s always hidden, right?”
Just then, the clock struck twelve.
“We don’t have much time,” Cora said. As the guards marched in formation for the traditional changing of the guard, we headed to the back of the hulking stone edifice. The clock tower was connected to the sprawling structure of the Palace of Westminster, and up close I could make out numerous cracks in the limestone.
“Look!” Cora called in excitement. She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she said abashedly. “It’s just … there’s a hole there,” she said, pointing to a crack at the base of the tower.