They were.
Matilda shook the thought away before it could take hold, looked at the vaguely familiar pattern of trees, and turned to Victor.
“You know the way home?” she said, trying to ignore the wobble in her voice. The goat looked up at her, and she rubbed the spot between his ears. “Come on, then.”
The late October afternoon was cold and pushed Matilda forward. Victor kept at her side as they headed toward Ferly Cottage, Matilda determined to get back as fast as she could so she could leave the blackout behind her, deep within the woods. Even as she picked up her pace, the shadows just wouldn’t stop nipping at her heels, and she knew she had another reason not to sleep later that night.
* * *
Victor stopped eating the sugar lumps out of Matilda’s hands, blinked at her, then galloped through the back door into the dusk—a sure sign that Lottie had just gotten home.
Matilda pressed her hands against the mug of lemon-and-ginger tea she’d brewed for herself. Her garden room hadn’t seemed so inviting when she got back, so she and Victor decided to have a pit stop in the kitchen instead. She looked at Nanna May, who was stirring the pot over the fire with a long wooden spoon and glancing up at Matilda with every seventh stir.
“What?” said Matilda, pushing her hair over her shoulders. “This is my kitchen, too, you know.”
Matilda sat up at the sound of her mother’s heels click-clacking across the kitchen tiles and the almost inaudible pid-padding of Nimbus’s paws. Lottie’s eyebrows popped up at the sight of Matilda sitting at the table, then her chin twitched a fraction, sharing an unspoken secret with Nanna May.
“Good evening, Matilda. Gracing us with your presence? Aren’t we the lucky ones,” she said, sweeping past Matilda and opening the fridge.
“Do I need an invitation?”
“No, unless I gave birth to a vampire,” said Lottie, crouching down to fuss with Nimbus’s ears. “And sometimes we do wonder, don’t we, Nimbus?”
If it was possible for cats to laugh, Nimbus did, then stuck her bottom in the air and went to find something that wasn’t hers to sit on and cover in hair.
“Whatever,” said Matilda, glaring at the back of her mom’s head. “So, did you have a good day?”
Her mother’s shoulders sagged, and she turned to face Matilda.
“What’s happened now? Have the police been here again?”
“No, but that’s quite a leap, Mother. I’m just asking about your day.”
“Which you never do.”
“So, maybe I’m making an effort,” said Matilda.
Lottie looked at Nanna May, who shrugged and turned to her pot.
“Fine. My day was fine. Thank you for asking, Tilly.”
“Where’ve you been?”
Matilda’s mother picked up the cast-iron kettle, filled it with water, then set it on top of the range, keeping her eyes firmly on her hands the whole time.
“Out and about,” she said over her shoulder as she turned the gas on, then lit a match and poked it underneath the kettle.
“Out and about where?”
“Just in town, doing a bit of shopping, a few errands.”
“In town? You mean Gravewick?” asked Matilda.
“Yes. Gravewick,” said Lottie, focusing all her attention on the kettle. “What did you get up to today?”
“Saw a friend,” replied Matilda.
Her mother turned and leaned against the kitchen work top, a smile stretched across her face like a mask.
“An actual friend or one of your friends who doesn’t know why you’ve suddenly become so interesting?” The stool that Nanna May was sitting on creaked along with the old lady’s knees as she pulled herself up and frowned at Lottie, whose smile wavered. “I’m glad you’ve got a friend, Matilda.”
“Me too. No idea why I find it so hard to make relationships with people the normal way. I have such a good role model.”
Her mother took a sharp breath and pointed a gelled fingernail at Matilda.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Is this about your joining a coven? You can ignore me all you like, but there’s magic you can only access with the support of a coven. If you wanted to invoke the spirit of your ancestors, or—”
“Not everything is about joining a coven, Mother,” said Matilda, standing up. “Why would I ever need to invoke a bunch of dead witches? I can access whatever magic I want with none of your rules holding me back, and I don’t need anyone’s help to do it. When are you going to get that?”
“But, Matilda, when a witch turns seventeen—”
Matilda pushed her fingers against her temples. “You can repeat it as many times as you want, but your words won’t change my mind. Your coven broke this family, it drove Dad away, and I will never be a part of something so destructive and self-involved.”
Lottie flinched as though Matilda had slapped her in the face, then folded her arms.
“Whatever you think you know about what happened with your father, you’re completely misled. I couldn’t have raised you if it weren’t for my coven.”
“And you’ve done such a good job,” said Matilda, her stool screeching across the tiles as she stood up.
She ignored her grandmother’s sympathetic outstretched hand and walked through the kitchen door into the hushing twilight.
“We’re stronger as a collective, Matilda,” called Lottie through the back door. “I know you think the cloak spell is the only magic you need, but one day that negativity is going to turn on you…”
Lottie’s voice trailed off as Matilda picked up a lantern and Victor joined her side, letting the croaks and caws of the animals that relished the nighttime silence her mother’s warning.
* * *
The smell of apple pie and hot chocolate wove up the path and tickled Matilda’s nostrils, complementing the smell of burning hazelnuts and leaves, and masking the rancid smell of the candle. Nanna May trudged up the path toward Matilda’s garden room with a steaming mug in one hand and a small-handled basket in the other. Matilda looked up from the freestanding terra-cotta chiminea, its flames warming her as she sat on the bench outside her room with Victor lying across her feet.
“You always know when I’m hungry, Nanna May,” said Matilda, taking the warm mug and the basket from her grandmother and setting them on the bench beside her.
Nanna May looked at the chiminea and wrinkled her nose, then glanced up at the inky sky and shook her head.
“Rain?” said Matilda, peering up at the sky just as her grandmother had. “I can’t feel it coming.”
Nanna May shrugged and turned away, gesturing at the pie in the eat-it-before-it-gets-cold way she often did when she brought Matilda food.
“I will,” said Matilda, lifting the napkin to peek at the wedge of apple pie in the basket. “This definitely won’t last long. Thank you.”
Nanna May shuffled back down the path, and Matilda wiggled her feet so Victor would let her move and get on with finishing her spell. Inside the chiminea was a fat candle sitting in a cast-iron holder, burning bright and smelling just as bad as she’d warned Oliver it would. Matilda had balanced an old poker across the top of the chimenea, and now the last of the witch’s ladders hung from it, dangling just above the candle flame.
Matilda blew on the hot chocolate, smiling into the mug as she smelled a hint of cinnamon and orange. She looked into the chiminea and, certain that the twine was about to burn in two, she set the mug down and knelt down in front of the candle.
“With each knot tied by my fingers and with each fruit that I burn, burn their memory clear of that night so they should forget.”
As if by magic, the twine broke halfway down and dropped on top of the candle. Victor bleated, and Matilda smiled at him.
“Yes, you can go in and snuggle up now, Vic.”
The goat trotted through the garden-room door, and Matilda blew out the candle, wondering whether Oliver had managed to do his half of the spell. She smiled as she pictured him tying the
witch’s ladders, then his face as he realized she wasn’t joking about the bad-smelling candles. It wasn’t the first time he’d nudged into her thoughts since they’d said goodbye earlier, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last.
Matilda went to a little shelf under one of her windows where a ceramic bowl was filled with pebbles. She put her fingers inside and tickled the smooth stones, feeling the energy at the end of her fingertips settle down. Once she was sure the crackle of magic had left her body, she went back to the bench and grabbed her hot chocolate and apple pie, then hurried into the warmth of her room, where Victor was already curled up on his cushion. She put her treats next to her bed, then closed the door just as a faint tap, tap, tap of rain sounded on the roof.
She looked out of the window as the rain became more insistent and extinguished the last glows of the chiminea. Her bed called to her, inviting her to crawl into where she would read while she ate her pie, snug and dry out of the rain that her witch grandmother had predicted would come.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Eleven days until Halloween
“But just because she lied about where she was doesn’t mean she was creeping around checking on her handiwork at the hospital.”
Matilda watched Oliver shuffle through the kissing gate and then followed him through.
“No, I guess not,” said Matilda. “But for all the issues we have, she’s never really lied to me about anything like that. Until now.”
They headed across the field, following the path worn out for them by dog walkers and families, their own mission a little different from the normal Sunday strolls. The sun was so dazzling that the sky seemed higher than normal, and the crisp wind almost blew away Matilda’s worries as it flicked her ponytail back and forth.
“I’m not seeing any animals out here. I don’t know if that’s good or bad,” said Oliver, frowning as he squinted across the fields. “To be honest, I don’t know what we’re looking for.”
“This land belongs to the same farmer who owned the cows that got … you know,” said Matilda, swallowing hard.
“Slaughtered?” said Oliver. Matilda nodded and caught her breath. “It really bothers you, doesn’t it? Hey.” Oliver grabbed Matilda’s wrist, and she stopped and looked up at him. “You don’t still think it might have been you, do you?”
“I … I don’t know. It’s definitely someone using magic, and it was my name carved on…,” said Matilda, closing her eyes but still seeing Ashley in the darkness. “I need to see where these animals were killed, in case it triggers a memory. These blackouts have been getting longer, and yesterday after you dropped me off I … I…”
“You what? What happened?”
Matilda sighed, torn between sharing her worry with Oliver and not wanting to admit the blackouts might mean that she was losing her mind or her magic.
“I don’t know what happened. One minute I was in my bed, and the next I was lying facedown in the woods, Victor nibbling at my fingers.”
Oliver blinked.
“Sorry. Victor?”
“He’s my goat.”
“Of course he is,” said Oliver, smiling.
“A witch needs a loyal pet, Oliver, for when the world turns against her.”
“Sorry, you were telling me you were unconscious in the woods, and I got distracted because I thought you were with someone. Carry on.”
Oliver started walking again, and Matilda closed one eye against the bright sun and watched Oliver’s silhouette ahead of her until he turned around.
“What?”
He got distracted because he thought I was with someone, she thought. She smiled and walked to his side, her feet squelching on the mud underfoot from a night of heavy rain.
“Nothing. The first time it happened I’m sure it was just a few minutes, but they’re getting worse and I just feel so drained afterward. If I can get from my room to the middle of the woods at the back of our property, maybe I could kill a herd of cows or even a person without realizing it?”
“You’re not a werewolf, Matilda.” Oliver put his hands on her shoulders, and Matilda felt like he was holding those paddles paramedics use to shoot volts through someone’s heart. “Right?”
Matilda shoved Oliver, and he looked down at her, a smile as bright and open as the sun on his face. He dropped his hands from her shoulders, and Matilda’s heart deflated with disappointment as he carried on striding across the field.
“Oh, shit,” said Oliver, stopping still like a scarecrow.
“What’s wrong?” asked Matilda, turning to see what he was looking at.
“Those,” he said, pointing ahead.
Matilda frowned, then looked back at him.
“The sheep?”
Oliver nodded and started walking back the way they’d come. He looked at Matilda and stopped.
“Come on, then,” he whispered.
“Why are you whispering, Oliver?”
“In case.”
“In case what?”
“They’re wild animals, Matilda. Let’s just go back.”
“They’re not wild animals. Don’t worry, they’ll just ignore us. We can get to the farm just over the next field, and we’ll look less suspicious if we use the public paths. Come on. I used to come here all the time with my dad.”
Oliver squinted at the sheep, then sighed and shook his head.
“Well, if we get trampled by a pack of sheep, then you owe me big.”
“Deal,” said Matilda as she looked at the gate on the other side of the field, then glanced back at the sheep, several of which had stood up.
“So, your dad used to bring you up here?” asked Oliver, his voice tight.
“Every Sunday we’d go for a walk, just the two of us. I used to spend all day Saturday with my mom or grandmother in the woods, where they tested me on the Latin names of plants or which birds carry the souls of the dead or which flowers you never bring into the house.”
“Normal kid’s stuff, then,” said Oliver.
Matilda smiled. “Dad knew how much I hated it, so when we used to walk together we’d just talk about how pretty everything was, and that’s all I had to do.”
A sheep bleated from across the field, and they both looked up. All the sheep had stood up and were facing their way. Oliver looked at Matilda.
“Don’t panic; they’re just watching us,” said Matilda. “People walk across here all the time.”
“Then why are you walking fast?” said Oliver, easily keeping up at her side.
“I’m not,” said Matilda, squinting at one of the sheep that was walking in their direction.
Oliver looked over his shoulder.
“Let’s just go back.”
“Nothing is going to happen, Oliver.”
“Well, maybe not, but sheep kind of freak me out, okay? Most animals, in fact.”
Matilda swallowed as she counted ten, then eleven, then twelve sheep walking toward them, as if they were possessed. She’d never given them any thought during the dozens of walks she’d taken with her dad when the sheep would meander around living their best life, chewing grass and lying in the sun. But the way they were looking over at her and Oliver, dozens of eyes homing in on a target, they were more like predators setting their sights on an injured gazelle than harmless farm animals.
The wind dropped, and Matilda took some calm from the quiet, then as it whipped up again a screaming sound drifted over them, so loud that Matilda put her hands over her ears. She looked at Oliver, who was doing the same thing, then back at the sheep in disbelief that a sound more at home in a horror film was coming from them.
“What the hell?” she shouted. “The farm can wait. Let’s go back.”
She gave them one last look before she turned and started walking back to the gate, her blood running cold and her feet slipping in the mud as their screams seemed to get louder.
“Thank you. That’s not normal, is it? They’re all walking over here? No, no, forget that,” said Oliver, looking over his sho
ulder as he started to jog. “They’re running. They’re running, Matilda! They’re coming for us!”
“They’re sheep, Oliver; they don’t come for people,” said Matilda, looking back.
She froze as more than twenty sheep ran toward them, their black heads pointing at Oliver and Matilda like poisoned darts, their bleats like guttural screams that belonged in nightmares, a far cry from the woolly animals people imagine leaping over their heads at bedtime.
“Shit,” said Matilda. “Shit! They’re coming for us! RUN!”
Oliver nodded, his face the color of their pursuers, and grabbed Matilda’s hand as she caught up with him, both of them glancing over their shoulders as the cloud of sheep closed in on them like a thundering storm. A couple at the front of the flock lost their footing in the mud and tumbled onto their sides, bleating and kicking their legs helplessly as the rest trampled over them.
Matilda focused on their escape, pinpointing the gate in the corner of the field. She momentarily dropped her pace as she noticed a figure standing behind it, then ducking behind the bushes.
It wasn’t the first time she’d seen a mane of curly red hair disappear into bushes.
“Matilda!” shouted Oliver, pulling Matilda back up to his pace.
“Did you see her?!” panted Matilda, pointing at the hedge where she’d just seen Erin. “Did you?”
Oliver ignored her and gasped as he looked over his shoulder. Matilda didn’t need to look to know that the sheep had gained on them—she could practically taste the dampness of their coats in the back of her throat.
“Nearly there!” panted Oliver. “Go!”
Matilda knew what he meant; she’d go through the gate first. She’d worked the gates hundreds of times and could slip through in a flash. She let go of Oliver’s hand and pounded across the thick mud, panting as she grabbed the catch with quivering fingers, adrenaline making her fumble before she released it and squeezed through. Oliver heaved a grunt and clambered over the low fence, collapsing in a heap on the grass.
Matilda backed away from the gate, her eyes wide with shock as the sheep kept coming, ramming into one another and climbing up on their front legs, their yellow teeth sticking out from their bottom jaws as they wailed at the escapees. She stumbled to where Oliver lay on his side, staring at the almost demonic black heads that didn’t look like they were going to let some wooden fence posts and wire stop them from getting to their victims. Matilda shrieked and spun around as she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder.
Mark of the Wicked Page 9
