I grinned, glad that Nollaig was showing the same interest in Dave as I knew he felt for her. I only hoped it wouldn’t cease whenever – if ever – this spell of madness came to an end.
‘Best decision you ever made, Mam, hiring that guy,’ said Pru. ‘But I kinda wish he still had his lamp. It’d be a lot more fun if we could use him to grant wishes.’
Once again, I had to remind myself that this was not the Pru I knew. Because the Pru I knew would never consider using Dave to make wishes upon. It was all because of a hateful and unempowered witch that he was stuck in Riddler’s Edge to begin with. She had broken his lamp so that he’d be under her control. She was now in prison for that and many other crimes, and despite some very strong suggestions from the Wayfarers, she refused to put the lamp back together. Only the one who broke it could fix it, so Dave had no choice but to wait until she grew a conscience – or until someone found a way to fix it without her.
He’d stayed in the Vander Inn some years previously, and I had a feeling that something might have happened between him and Nollaig back then. For now, she’d given him a job in return for his keep, and both of them seemed ridiculously happy with the arrangement. Or at least Dave had seemed happy until this evening.
‘I’ll go and get you some curry, Ash,’ said Nollaig. ‘And after you’ve eaten, you can join our poker game. It’s going to be the most fun ever!’
I had my doubts about how much fun it was going to be to play poker with a bunch of overgrown teenagers. So after I’d eaten, I made my excuses and told everyone I was going to my room.
≈
The broom was still out and about, and Maude had finally vacated her spot next to the telescope. Fuzz was there, though, and he grinned when he saw me and patted the spot next to him on the bed.
It seemed as good as spot as any to do what I was about to do, so I kicked off my boots, and then lay on the four poster bed with my furry familiar by my side. Next, I took a very deep breath, and then opened the box Arthur and Adeline had given me that morning.
There were two large, neatly bound piles. One pile was labelled: Approved. The other was labelled: Not Approved. I quickly set aside the approved pile, and took the unapproved articles out of their binding. The first article was dated the first of January, the Year of the Apple.
Horrifying Attack Leaves Vampire Badly Injured
On New Year’s Eve, three male witches, all members of Riddler’s Cove Flying Club, attacked a female vampire and left her for dead. The woman was discovered hours later by a dog walker, in the Mulching Mire area of the Wandering Wood.
The woman in question has asked not to be named in this report, as she fears for her safety. She has also declined to tell me the names of the witches who attacked her. She did, however, allow her vampire physician, Doctor Dillis, to detail the injuries she suffered …
I read through the rest of the article in shock, and then moved onto another even worse piece. And then another, and another … I knew that relations between the different supernatural factions had been far more strained back in the eighties. And with Arnold’s irrational hatred for anyone who wasn’t a witch, I should hardly have been surprised that he had suppressed these articles.
But even though I knew all of this, reading through them was hard. I took my time – and a lot of breaks to snuggle Fuzz – and after about an hour, I came to something that was not an article. It was a handwritten letter, addressed to Arnold and signed by my mother. I leafed through the remainder of the pile, and saw that each paper that followed was just the same: all letters, each one addressed to Arnold.
For a few minutes I stared at the letters in awe. Should there be some sense of sadness, or connection? Would I see similarities between her writing and mine? I took a quick glance, and the writing had a few similarities, I supposed. It was almost as messy as mine, and it tilted to the right, which my writing did sometimes. I sniffed the paper on the first of the letters, but it just smelled like paper. I wasn’t really sure how I expected it to smell.
‘You done sniffing?’ said Fuzz. ‘Because I’m getting curious. And you know the old expression about how a cat that’s left curious for too long will soon lose his fur.’
‘That’s not the expression. But I don’t really care, because I’m curious too.’
I was just beginning to read the first of the handwritten letters, when there was a soft knock on the door.
‘The universe isn’t on my side tonight,’ said Fuzz. ‘It’s probably because of all those mice I tormented last night. I suppose you’d better go answer it. But try and be quick.’
I rolled my eyes and padded across the floor. When I opened my bedroom door, Jared was standing on the other side.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I thought you were at the Fisherman’s Friend.’
He didn’t immediately reply. Instead he put his hands in his jean pockets, then took them out again. He scratched his head, then stopped scratching it. He sighed, then started the whole sequence of awkward movements all over again. Finally he said, ‘Yeah. Yeah I was there. It was great fun. A right party atmosphere.’
‘I know. I was there at lunch, and you’d almost think a woman hadn’t been murdered,’ I said dryly. ‘So what can I do for you, Jared?’
He sighed loudly, and then said, ‘I just dropped in to tell you how much fun I was having. I’m going to head off on a date now with a woman I met at the tavern. It’s em … it’s going to be lots of fun.’
‘Okay. That’s … nice?’
‘Is it? It’s not absolute and utter torment for you, then, seeing me go out with a different woman each and every night?’
He looked like he wanted my answer to be yes. I guess I could have pretended to be a little bit jealous, just to make him feel better about himself. But that could lead to further problems down the line. Jared knew that I had feelings for Dylan – well, for the Dylan who didn’t act like a dumb teenager, anyway. He’d also told me that he was going to stop flirting with me and asking me out, but he’d lasted about three days before returning to form.
‘I’m not jealous, Jared. I hope she’s lovely, and that you have a great time together,’ I said.
He sighed yet again. ‘Yeah,’ he said, slipping his hands into his pockets once more and turning on his heels. ‘I’ll try my best. But Ash–’ He turned and stared hard at me. ‘–if you need me for anything tonight, just call, and I’ll be back in a flash.’
I watched him walk away. He really was gorgeous. Tall and lithe with bleached blond hair, and a London accent that sometimes gave me chills down my spine. With most of the women in Riddler’s Edge and in London vying for his attention, I was forever confused that he focused on me.
And I was equally confused as to why I didn’t return those feelings because, let’s face it, at least he actually wanted me. Dylan … well, he might have been flirting with me today, but he had made it quite clear that a relationship wasn’t on the cards. Not unless someone happened to come up with a miraculous cure for his dayturner virus, anyway.
I gave Jared one last look as he turned onto the staircase, then I closed the door and returned to my room.
‘Good Gretel,’ said Fuzz as I settled down on the bed once more. ‘That guy’s got it bad. Are you sure you’re not spritzing yourself with some pheromones or something?’
‘Ew! You know I’m not. Now be quiet and comforting for a minute, will you? Because I’m about to start reading these letters.’
The cat snuggled into me. ‘I promise I’ll be comforting,’ he said. ‘But I think quiet might be aiming a bit too high.’
Dear Father,
I’ve been working for the newspaper a long time now. Long enough to know what stories you will and won’t print. So instead of wasting my time typing up the latest story, I figured I’d just write you a quick note instead.
Yesterday afternoon, one of your cronies from the Wyrd Court was accused of killing a weredog employee of his. This story will never make the news. It won’t even go to tria
l, because weredogs have no rights.
The second I heard of what happened, I thought of a conversation you and I had when I was a little girl. You told me that being the owner of a newspaper was a big responsibility, because you had to make sure that your journalists didn’t write to someone else’s agenda. At the time, I was so impressed by you. I thought it meant you would always fight for the truth. But as the years have gone on, I’ve grown to realise: you might not want your journalists to write to someone else’s agenda, but you certainly want them to write to yours.
It’s disappointing to find out that your hero is no hero at all. One day, the supernatural world won’t be ruled by witches who feel like you do. I hope to the goddess that you and I are in the same room when that happens, just so I can see how much it galls you.
With very little love,
Abby.
I set the letter aside, feeling a swell of sadness. I knew what I thought of Arnold, and now I knew for sure that my mother had felt just the same. She’d been quite clear in telling him how she felt about him, too. But even with her honesty and her many appeals, he had never changed.
There were more and more letters just like that one. It was exhausting and emotional to read through them all – a real box of buzzkills, just as I had been told. Finally, I came to one dated December the Fifteenth, the Year of the Singer.
Dear Father,
It’s been quite some time since I’ve bothered to write anything that I knew you wouldn’t publish. You’ve probably enjoyed this little break. You probably think that you finally broke me.
When you reach the end of this letter, maybe you can decide if that’s true or not. In the meantime, let me tell you a little story.
A good long while ago – last March, in fact –I got a call from a contact in Riddler’s Cove. Old Ma Flowers, the local healer, had been called out late the night before to treat a wizard, Felim Moon. On his way home from work at the broom factory, Felim had been set upon by a bunch of kids. At first they hurled stone-throwing spells his way. Next, they decided in their childish unwisdom that it might be fun to send some Inferno spells Felim’s way.
Luckily for Felim, those children were too young and inexperienced to be able to manage a true Inferno spell. Because if they had, it would have kept right on burning until it had razed him to the ground. As it was, he was left with severe burns, burns that looked like they might never heal.
Felim didn’t even call Old Ma himself. A concerned onlooker, too afraid to interfere, got in touch with the healer. When Old Ma arrived, she asked Felim why he didn’t defend himself. ‘Because,’ he said. ‘I knew I would have been sent to Witchfield.’
The healer feared he might be right. But as she tended to him, she realised someone else had already gotten to work on his injuries.
‘It was Brian the Brave,’ Felim told Old Ma. ‘He sent the kids on their way and gave me an ointment. Told me I’d be right as rain in a few days’ time.’
After hearing that story, I went to visit the old wizard myself, to get some more details. When I arrived at Moonstone Farm, Brian the Brave was there.
For the first time in my life, I learned what the sióga really were, and they were nothing like you said they were at all. I learned that they were good people. People who had tried, again and again, to help all of the supernaturals that witches thought were beneath them.
I learned that even now, when most of the world believes the faeries have washed their hands of us, some of them still intervene. Like Brian the Brave. A man who knows that everyone is equal. A man who respects and admires the channelled magic of a wizard as much as the innate magic of a witch. A man who thinks that vampires, werewolves, weredogs, and unempowered witches are just as important as your friends at the Flying Club.
I’ve known Brian for well over a year now, and I can honestly say that my time with him has been the happiest time I’ve ever known.
Tomorrow, I’m meeting with Grace to tell her every single story that you never allowed me to tell. And once I’ve done that, I’m going to visit your house, and when I do, I shall be bringing Brian with me. While I’m not sure you deserve it, I’m going to give you one last chance. You can either accept Brian and I as a couple, or you’ll never see any of us again.
And when I say any of us, I’m including your grandchild in that. Because Brian and I are expecting a baby – a child who will grow up never being afraid of her parents.
We’re due to marry in the sióga realm in a few days’ time. If you can get over yourself when we come to talk to you tomorrow, you might even be welcome at our wedding. But I have the sad certainty that you will never be one of our guests.
With less love than ever,
Abby.
9. The Lesson of the Creepy Halloween Decorations
My magic lessons were still taking place on the beach close to Dylan’s lighthouse. It was safer to work in a large space, out of doors, where I couldn’t harm anyone, and as this part of the strand was inaccessible to humans, it was the perfect spot.
It was drizzling when I met Brent there the next morning. He was hunched against a rock, wearing a trench coat and looking forlorn.
‘Hey.’ I greeted him with a cautious smile, hoping to the goddess that he wasn’t going to tell me he was giving up on our lessons because they were a bit of a buzzkill. ‘How em … how are you feeling this morning?’
He looked up at me, a smile of relief on his face. ‘Much better now that you’re here,’ he said. ‘I was worried you were going to bunk off the lesson. I mean, this is Riddler’s Edge at Halloween. No one wants to work.’
‘But … you do?’ I asked hopefully.
‘For sure. Getting to teach magic to someone who’s half sióga and half witch is just about the biggest buzz I can think of. I was just afraid you’d rather be elsewhere.’
I gazed at him, wondering: was he affected or not? He’d dodged all my calls yesterday, which had made me sure he was under the same spell as everyone else. ‘So em … what do you think about this horrible murder that’s taken place?’ I asked.
‘Horrible murder? Oh right, yeah, I got your message about that. Y’know, I think you’re worrying over nothing. I mean it’s solved, isn’t it? No biggie – certainly not something you want to waste your Halloween thinking about.’
Crap! Brent was just like the rest of them, then. ‘And what about the rest of my messages? The ones where I was asking you about this orange glittery magic I’ve been seeing in the air?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘It’s Halloween, Ash. What other colour would Halloween magic be?’
‘So you’re sure, then? You know for a fact that what I’m seeing through my half-sióga eyes is just run-of-the-mill Halloween magic?’
‘Well I mean, I’m not sure sure. It’s not like there’s another fae person hanging about that we can consult. And I can’t actually see magic myself. But either way, I’m one hundred percent sure that it’s just Halloween magic. So let’s forget about it and have some fun with our lesson.’
I guess I could have called him out for saying he was one hundred percent sure on something he had no idea about, but what would that achieve? Brent was just as far gone as the rest of them. But at least he was still willing to teach me this morning. And let’s face it – I was going to need all the skills I could get if I was going to figure out what was going on in this town.
‘Why don’t we start with going over that warmth spell I taught you last week?’ he suggested.
Oh dear. When we attempted my first warming spell I’d burned my fingertips and singed my hair. Even with my starter wand I was having trouble letting the power out gently. But I had been practising, and I’d done a decent enough job of it while I was on my own. Now to see if I could repeat it while someone was staring expectantly my way. No pressure then.
I was using incantations for most of my attempted spells, albeit creating my own terrible rhymes. Some spells always needed some words to help things along. Other spells, like warming one
s, just needed an incantation when you were learning – something to help you focus your magic until you got used to doing them. I brought to mind the incantation I’d been having most success with, and chanted the unpoetic words:
‘Warm me up all through and through
So my poor skin does not turn blue.’
I looked down at my fingertips, seeing the golden magic emanate, like a fine shimmer entering the air. I was still amazed that I could see it. It had begun with me seeing a golden shimmer around supernatural enclaves and objects, moved on a little bit until I was seeing the green glow of dark objects. Now I was seeing the magic in the air, and the magic of my own spells. How cool was that? Well, it was cool as long as I didn’t think about this new orange magic, anyway.
As the magic worked, I felt the heat at my extremities first, a wave of warmth coursing through me until I felt like I was sitting in front of a crackling fire. Brent touched my palms and smiled. ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Your body is toasty warm. Much better than last time.’
‘Couldn’t be worse,’ I said with a shrug. ‘When you start as far below the bottom as I have, the only way to go is up. Although I do wish I was making my way there in a quicker and more graceful manner rather than with my small and clumsy strides.’
He chuckled. ‘Doesn’t really matter how you get there. You are getting there. Now just relax, and we’ll work on your inanimagic.’
‘Relax and inanimagic are not two words that should ever go together, Brent.’
‘Maybe not,’ he agreed with another chuckle. ‘But it’s the strongest part of your witch power, and you never know when it might come in handy. Tell you what – we’ll work on it for half an hour, then we’ll move into something new and exciting.’
≈
Half an hour is an incredibly long time when you’re practising the creepiest magic known to witch. My mother had been an inanimage, according to Brent, and I had inherited her talent. Our first inanimagic lesson had involved me making a bottle dance, and ever since then Brent had been bringing larger and larger objects for me to try.
Shiver Me Witches Page 6
