Another witch?
As they tramped closer I heard the whistling sound of their breathing. Whoever this was, they were a little out of condition.
Distracted by this new arrival, I didn’t hear the sound of an enormous bird flying towards me until its wings were beating down at me from above. I shrieked, fumbling with my wand, imagining I was being attacked from all sides. In my shock, I almost obliterated the creature with a death spell without thinking twice.
“Hoo-ooo!” it called urgently, and I stumbled backwards, partly in disbelief that Mr Hoo had found me, and partly terrified that I’d nearly killed the very creature that meant more to me than any other.
“By all that’s green,” I whimpered.
“Hooo-ooo!”
The footsteps stopped close behind me.
“Alf?” a familiar voice asked, sucking air greedily in and out of his lungs, so noticeably loud in the otherwise silent wood.
I blinked in surprise and jumped into the light of his wand. “Ezra?”
He had doubled over, struggling to catch his breath. “I heard someone scream,” he puffed. “I thought it was you.”
“It was me.” I placed my hand on his shoulder. “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t have come.”
“This fella—” Ezra flapped a hand towards Mr Hoo but ran out of breath before he could finish.
I rubbed his back, waiting for him to get it together. Ezra wasn’t a young man, after all. When he seemed a little more in control, I directed my wand light onto the hedera in front of us. “Mind out for these plants on the ground here.” I illuminated the green carpet climbing the slight hill. Ezra followed my beam of light. Together we watched as the ivy trembled and stretched itself first one way and then another.
“What is that stuff? Is it alive?” He stood up, clutching his hand to his chest. “Where’s Silvan?”
I had been trying to keep a lid on my mounting anxiety. “He went over the edge, beyond this ivy.” Now that Ezra was here, I knew I had a stark choice. I clamped a hand around my throat. “I have to go after him.”
Ezra stepped forward as though he meant to go and look but I grabbed him and pulled him back. “Wait!” Lifting my wand I focused on the writhing, living carpet of evil in front of me. I summoned the coldest hatred I could find inside myself, the stuff I usually reserved for vampires. “In infernis arderet,” I intoned, and flung my wand hand at the foot of the path in front of me. I traced a line up to the rise.
Burn in hell.
Sparks flew. My wand emitted a line of fire, much like a flame thrower, and I directed it along the path, burning the ivy to ash in a matter of seconds. Smoke rose from the path and I prodded the scorched remains of the plants with my foot. They didn’t react.
“Come on,” I said and darted up the path, Mr Hoo leaping from his branch and soaring ahead of us. At the ridge he paused.
“Hoooooo. Hooooo.”
I scrambled to the edge and looked down. Not as bad as I’d feared. Not a sheer drop by any means, more a steep incline. I couldn’t see the bottom. Maybe I could slide down it. I’d seen that done in movies.
“You can’t go down there,” Ezra said, as I hesitated on the edge.
Can’t? What choice did I have? “Silvan’s down there somewhere,” I replied. “He might be hurt. Or worse.” I didn’t want to think about that.
Ezra grabbed my arm. “We’ll go back. We’ll get help. There’s an inn full of witches we can call on for assistance. We can talk to the Ministry of Witches.”
“You can go back,” I said, “But I can’t. I know that Silvan wouldn’t leave me here and I won’t abandon him.” With that, I climbed over the lip of the ridge.
Intention is one thing, the courage to follow through quite another. I wavered in place on the edge of that incline, shivering with fear. I think I’d imagined that I could somehow navigate my way down by using handholds, but the moment my centre of gravity was over the edge I began to slip. There was nothing for it; I either had to go back or get on with it.
I let go.
Within seconds I was sliding down the incline and picking up speed, the cold night air buffeting my face and my stomach looping the loop.
If I lost control, I’d spill my brains on a rock at the bottom. Instinctively I thrust my wand into the air above me, envisaging a huge silk parachute dragging me backwards. “Modero!”
I jerked as the spell took effect. It yanked me backwards—somewhat painfully—before the pull of gravity caused me to slide forwards again. “Tempero!” I called, and this time the descent became gentler, rocks and pebbles scattering alongside me as my feet loosened them. I held tight to my wand and readied myself for a bumpy landing. When it came, I tumbled forwards, landing on my belly, the wind knocked clean out of me.
I gasped and lay face down in the earth, softer here, not frozen, the way it had been up above. I stretched my fingers and arms and wiggled my jaw. The sound of wings above alerted me to the belated arrival of Mr Hoo.
“Hooo? Hooo?” he worried.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Everything seemed to be in one piece. Gingerly I pushed myself into a sitting position. A little battered and bruised, nothing to worry about.
“What took you so long?”
Silvan! He was lounging against a fallen tree, looking like something the cat had dragged in. Covered in leaf mulch and muck, I could only wish his grandmama could see him now. He had an arm wrapped around his chest.
I almost laughed in relief. “By all that’s green! You’re here! You scared me to death.”
“So did you, when you followed me over.”
He pointed up at what, from this vantage point, looked like a sheer cliff. I pulled a face. Had I really tried to slide down that?
“Who’s your friend?” he asked.
Ezra had followed me over and now he fell through the air, his velocity accelerating. “Woooooooooooah!” he yelled.
Silvan directed his wand at him. “Mollis nube super terram,” he said softly, and Ezra instantly slowed down and floated softly to the ground.
“Aye aye aye!” the detective gasped, his eyes rolling around like a scared dog’s.
“Are you alright?” I asked.
“I’m fine!” He laughed—with a faint trace of hysteria—and tottered about the clearing. “That was an experience.”
Silvan groaned as he pushed himself up. I dashed to his side. “What about you? Are you hurt?”
Silvan grimaced and cradled the side of his chest. “My old war wounds are playing up.” He meant his recently broken ribs. I threw his arm over my shoulder and allowed him to lean on me, all the while taking stock of where we were. The stony-faced cliff wrapped around us in a horseshoe shape, there were more trees ahead of us, but only a smattering. Beyond that, I could see a few lights.
“Look there!” I directed everyone’s attention through the line of trees. “That’s where we’re headed.”
I thought perhaps we’d stumbled across a small village or something, but it turned out to be a single large red-bricked structure, similar in size to Whittle Inn but not as old. It had a central building, flanked by two wings, with dozens and dozens of windows in a late Georgian, early Victorian style, a slate roof, and quasi-marble pillars at the entrance. Lights burned in numerous windows, and thick black curls of smoke poured out of the chimneys.
We followed the track up to the front door. A painted sign, depicting a gold cage with an open door, had been attached to the building by an iron bracket. It swung above our heads, rocked by the cold breeze. Mr Hoo landed on it and stared down at us with burning eyes. “The Gilded Cage?” I asked. “Does that mean anything to anyone?”
“Oh yes,” said Silvan, dropping his arm from my shoulders and studying the sign. “It does. It means bad news.”
My heart sank. If I’d been hoping for rescue, we’d obviously come to the wrong place judging by Silvan’s face. “What do you mean bad news?”
He pressed his lips together and flicke
d his eyes at the windows, searching for something or someone.
“You’ve been here before?” Ezra asked from Silvan’s other side.
“I’m …” Silvan hesitated, probably intending to say he couldn’t tell us, but he changed his mind. “Yes. Yes, I have.”
Ezra and I waited for further explanation. None came.
“I can’t say anything more,” Silvan shrugged. “But I think we should turn back.”
I rolled my eyes. “Seriously?” If he wanted us to somehow navigate back up that cliff face to the land of man-eating hedera, he had another think coming. Someone had to take charge here. I stomped up the steps to the main door.
“Alf, I wouldn’t—” Silvan called after me.
Too late. I hammered on the door.
“Oh,” Silvan moaned. “I really wouldn’t have.”
“Tooo-wit,” Mr Hoo called from above.
I waved dismissively at Silvan and glared at my owl. “A lot of help you are.” From behind the door came the sound of something slithering. I curled my lip, not liking it at all, and stepped back. The door opened just the tiniest of cracks and light filtered through. I waited, imagining that someone would pull the door wider and ask us what our business was.
Nothing happened.
“Hello?” I shuffled forward.
“Alf, we should go,” Silvan called from behind me.
“Go where?” What was our alternative? I reached out with the tip of my wand and pushed the door. It swung open easily, revealing a compact reception area. Beautifully decorated with black and cream tiles on the floor, the walls lined in deep green silk above the dado rail, cream paint below. Art Nouveau mirrors were hanging on the walls, reflecting the light originating from half a dozen gas lamps that were dotted around. Numerous tall, thin palm plants had been arranged in the corners, and the reception desk, carved from English walnut, had been polished to a glimmering red shine.
To the immediate left of the desk was an arch leading to a short hallway. To the left of that was an elevator. An exact replica of the one that had suddenly taken up residence in Whittle Inn, right down to the curly ironwork, the brass buttons and the coloured glass.
Beautiful.
But who had opened the door?
With nobody in sight, I called out again. “Hello?”
No answer.
“Alf?” Silvan whispered. “Let’s go.”
Something darted across the reception, above my eyeline. A green flash. It disappeared through an archway to the right. I didn’t hesitate. Stepping into the hallway, I rushed to the arch and stared through into a room approximately half the size of my main bar. This looked like a sitting room, with four or five worn leather sofas arranged around large coffee tables. The small green bird alighted on the fireguard set before an empty grate. It cocked its head at me, its black eyes unblinking.
“Ezra!” I hissed, turning my head to glance back at the detective still standing at the front door while trying my hardest not to move too abruptly and frighten the bird away. “The parakeet!”
Silvan sighed and closed his eyes, his shoulders drooping as Ezra followed me indoors. With no option other than to remain outside or join us, he sloped after us. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he said and held up his wand with evident intent.
That gave me pause.
If he’d been here before and felt the need to defend himself then I probably needed to follow suit. Silvan was no coward. Something had him rattled.
I raised my own wand, although I couldn’t see anything that might threaten us in any way. As Silvan joined us at the arch, the front door swung closed with an almighty clatter. Already feeling nervy, I squeaked in alarm.
“And so it begins,” said Silvan, swivelling slowly about to inspect the other doors and hiding places.
The parakeet took flight. We watched it circle the sitting room, almost slowly, before it suddenly picked up speed and changed direction. It headed straight for us, a streamlined feather bullet determined to cause maximum harm.
We scattered in alarm.
I stumbled over the hem of my robes and took a tumble. Quick as a flash I was on my feet again, wand at the ready. The parakeet circled once and then disappeared down the corridor beside the reception desk.
“After it!” cried Ezra. I dipped behind the reception desk and chased the bird.
The narrow corridor opened into a massive Victorian-style conservatory. A huge glass structure, perhaps twenty-five or thirty feet in height, supported by thick iron struts that had been painted a fresh cream. Enormous potted plants, like something you might have found at Kew Gardens, had been arranged around the space, including several trees. Above our heads, a rope swing with a wooden seat hung from the central iron pillar. The overall effect gave you the impression of being inside an enormous birdcage. The parakeet flew up to the swing and settled on the seat, peering over the edge at us, dwarfed by its surroundings.
The slithering noise that I’d heard while waiting outside the front door came again. The sound of something heavy and papery gliding smoothly over the tiles. Curious, I turned around. At first I wasn’t sure what I was seeing. My mind rushed to deny it, but Ezra, following closely behind me, spotted it at almost the same time.
“No!” he blurted. “What is that?”
A snake. As fat as a man’s head, fatter maybe. At least fifteen feet long. It slithered past us, so close I could have reached out and touched it had I wanted to.
Needless to say, I didn’t want to.
I held my breath until it had passed. It slithered to a corner and coiled itself up, staring at us malevolently through hooded eyes.
In all the excitement I hadn’t paid much attention to the rest of my surroundings but now I could see the cages and the crates, the baskets and the vivariums, all piled up, one on top of another, scattered among the enormous potted palm trees and the ferns. Dozens and dozens of creatures stared back at us from behind their bars or glass walls. Birds, bats and cats, rats, mice and other rodents, snakes, spiders, frogs and toads, a badger, a fox, even a hedgehog.
“These are similar to the animals that Delia brought to the inn,” I said. “Are they familiars?”
A green feather floated down in front of my face. I peered up, searching for the bird, but it had hidden itself.
“They’re not familiars,” a woman replied. “Are they, Silvan?”
In place of the parakeet, a woman appeared. About the same age as me, perhaps slightly older, her frizzy hair created a halo, shining in the low light.
“No. They’re not familiars.” Silvan had limped in after us, still clutching his ribs. He smiled up at her, but I noticed the grim set of his jaw, the lack of warmth in his eyes. “Hello again, Meztli.”
She laughed, a high-pitched discordant sound, like fingernails on a blackboard. She arched her back and kicked her legs out. The swing began to rock. I batted away a shower of green feathers in distaste as they floated down and scattered over me.
“I thought we talked about all this before?” Silvan called, keeping his tone conversational.
“Is that what you choose to call what happened?” Meztli asked. “Us talking about it?”
Silvan shrugged. “For the most part.”
“Oh, when you put it like that, I suppose we did have a little chat about my untoward habits. But honestly, what’s a girl supposed to do? I couldn’t stay where I was forever. Where you sent me, I mean.” She glared at him. “At the end of the day, I’m a collector and a hoarder and I just can’t help myself.” She propelled the swing in a wide arc, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, creating a downdraught and scattering more feathers.
“Protective circle,” Silvan muttered and, without needing to be told twice, Ezra and I turned our backs to Silvan, wands held up and out. I couldn’t see an immediate threat, but there was no brooking with the quiet urgency I heard in Silvan’s voice. “Use your wands to defend yourselves if you have to, but be careful not to harm any of the animals in the
cages.”
Our activity was met with another peal of laughter from above. “Oh, Silvan, my darling. What folly is this? You only just escaped with your life the last time we met. Did you know, you were the prize I dreamt about throughout those long years in prison?”
“You exaggerate, Meztli. You’ve only been in prison for ten months. Hardly years.”
I risked a glance at the woman swinging above us. She returned my stare with a look of absolute venom. From its corner, the snake turned its glassy expression on me too. It began to uncoil itself, almost as though she had silently bidden it do so. I swallowed.
“She was in prison?” Ezra asked. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Meztli Kuthbeorth. Does that mean anything to you?”
Ezra shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“That’s as it should be.”
“But you said she’d been in prison,” Ezra said. “Surely that’s a matter of public record. I would have expected the Ministry of Witches to know something about the case.”
“A private prison.” Silvan narrowed his eyes at the woman above us.
She cackled and started to slow the swing down. “What Silvan isn’t telling you is that he was employed by an interfering old gangster—”
“A grieving father.”
“—to hunt me down.” She glared at him. “And paid a pretty penny, no doubt.”
“That’s none of your business,” Silvan told her.
“You’re a whore for gold, Silvan. You’d do anything for a pouch full of coin.”
“Taking you in was the right thing to do, regardless of payment.”
“Why was the father grieving?” I hesitated to ask, but I wanted to know what we were dealing with.
Without taking his eyes from Meztli, Silvan pointed his wand at the animals in the cages. “Each one of those animals actually shelters a person’s soul.”
A Gaggle of Ghastly Grandmamas: Wonky Inn Book 9 Page 16
