Octavius Wrench’s form shifted almost imperceptibly. The Sword of Wills twitched at his back. Ivy intuited that the information about Mr. Punch being a Hob had come as a shock. Hemlock’s eyes flicked toward her leader; Monkshood slowly hovered upright.
Ivy continued quickly, before any of the Dirge could shut her up: “I don’t know why that army bother following you,” she said, pointing to the Great Gates. “You’re not the most powerful race of the dead at all. Everything you say is a lie!”
The army became agitated. Ivy’s insult had gotten a reaction. She just had to push Octavius Wrench a little bit further and her plan would work. She could see Seb’s and Valian’s anxious faces in the corner of her vision; they were bound to be wondering what she was up to. “The truth is,” she resumed, “without natural light, you’re feeble. You can’t even step inside an undermart without using one of Alexander Brewster’s potions. How can you be expected to locate anyone’s soulmate?”
Some of the dead began poking through the shadows of the chasm, taking notice of what was going on.
Octavius Wrench’s neck twitched, but his deep voice remained composed. “My power is unparalleled. As an Augrit, I can be whoever I want to be. I do not merely change my appearance but my whole constitution. I effectively become an entirely different race. Any race at all.” He lifted away from the ground and expanded his arms, grinning malevolently. “Let me demonstrate.” The ends of his jacket flared out as he spun. His strange, transparent face became a blur, and then, when he stopped, his skin looked fleshy and normal. “There. Now I am a Hob.”
Not quite, Ivy thought, shuffling backward.
The air stirred. Monkshood wobbled and, along with several members of the Dirge’s army, slid over the stone floor toward Octavius Wrench as if he was a magnet for the dead. The dead soldiers clawed at the ground, fighting against the invisible force pulling them in.
“What is the meaning of this?” Monkshood growled as they were all dragged closer. Splaying his arms for balance, he dropped his can opener, and the steel crabs disappeared.
“Something’s wrong,” Octavius snapped, throwing his arms out. “I can’t change back.”
Ivy could see the veins pulsing on his forehead from the effort of trying. “You can’t transform again because you aren’t yet a Hob,” she explained. “You see, Hobs are formed from more than one broken soul. So in order to truly become one, you need first to amass other fragments of soul inside you.”
Monkshood’s can opener and Hemlock’s electric cord both shot straight to Octavius Wrench and vanished in a tiny blink of light. He flinched as the broken souls trapped inside them were absorbed within him. His face flashed with panic. “NO!”
There was a loud whoosh as Monkshood and several of the dead finally flew the remaining distance to their so-called leader. As soon as they touched Octavius Wrench, their empty robes, and Monkshood’s mask, fell to the floor with a soft thud. The other members of the Dirge’s army retreated into the shadows.
“What have you done?” Hemlock asked in her quiet, calm voice. “Where is Blackclaw?”
Ivy didn’t reply; she was too busy staring at Octavius Wrench, who was now the size of a telephone booth and getting bigger. The stitches of his black suit ripped apart as his limbs swelled like sausages. Ivy could see his features changing shape. She sensed the broken souls of Monkshood and the other races of the dead fighting within him, trying to wrestle control. Octavius Wrench’s arms jerked, and Ivy saw the Sands of Change slip from his fingers and fly out of his reach into a patch of mud.
Her communications with Mr. Punch over the last few days had taught Ivy how problematic existing as a Hob really was. She thought about how often the souls within him had to compromise to allow one another an equal time in charge. Octavius Wrench was power-hungry with no desire to share anything. Ivy hoped he would find being a Hob a lot more difficult than he realized.
And she was right.
Beneath the rim of Octavius Wrench’s burst bowler hat, his face altered. His skin speckled with liver spots; the shallows of his eyes grew deeper, darker. Monkshood’s gaunt complexion, black lips and hollow nose socket appeared. “Leader, release me,” he demanded gruffly.
Then his face changed as fast as a TV switching between channels. This time, it became the visage of a creature with cracked russet skin and tentacles writhing from its neck. “Let me out of here!” one of the dead soldiers demanded. They had a buzzing voice, like a frustrated insect’s.
Then, for a moment, Octavius Wrench reclaimed control, his brow furrowed in a deep scowl. “Stop squabbling!” he bellowed. “Allow me to take power—” But as his concentration finally broke, the Sword of Wills went limp at his back and clattered to the ground.
Ivy’s lungs emptied as she thought of all the underguard forces around the world who would be waking from a bad dream, slowly realizing what had happened. With any luck, they’d be able to jump into action as soon as possible. She looked around and saw the army of the dead begin spilling from the Great Gates. Ivy quickly assessed their body language to see if they meant her harm, but they were all focused on Octavius Wrench, curious to see what was happening.
Hemlock shook her only moving fist at Ivy and Seb. “You’ll pay for this!” She tried to turn her head to address the army, but her neck was fixed. “Loyal supporters,” she shouted instead, “attack everyone—now!”
The dead hesitated. Angry muttering flitted through their ranks. A few winged beasts bolted into the sky; a couple of scarecrows scarpered. The grim-wolves whom Octavius Wrench had ordered to search the area sniffed the air, snarled and scurried back into Lundinor.
A horn sounded in the morning air, like the rallying call of a mythical army.
“Is it just me, or does that sound familiar?” Seb asked Ivy.
She scanned the area and spotted people emerging from the surrounding fields and roads. They looked like commoners in regular winter clothing—gloves, thick coats and boots; some had handbags or backpacks. They were all carrying an empty lantern of one sort or another: some were made of glass and were highly decorated; others had been constructed from scrap metal. Ivy could sense they were all uncommon. Two women wearing puffy jackets and knitted scarves appeared from behind Ivy, and she spotted divergent arrow pins attached to the rims of their woolly hats. “They’re Tidemongers…,” she told Seb as the women walked by. “That sound—it was the same alarm we heard at the Tidemongers’ base in Nubrook.” Hope burst within her like a firework.
They heard the flap of wings, rustle of bodies and stomp of feet as the dead scattered. A cry went up from one of the Tidemongers, and in unison they all opened the doors of their lanterns. Ivy stared as a group of selkies, who had been slithering away, suddenly changed direction against their will and sped toward a large railway lantern being lugged by two Tidemonger agents. A meter from the lantern, the selkies vanished in a slimy green flash and reappeared inside the lantern casing. Squashed behind the glass, they looked like strange green trifles with layers of seaweed limbs and jagged teeth. It couldn’t be comfortable, Ivy thought. The two agents hastily shut the door of the lantern, trapping them within. And in fact all around, Ivy and Seb saw, the dead who hadn’t managed to get away fast enough found themselves being sucked inside the Tidemongers’ lanterns, as if they were formed of nothing more than gas. In a matter of moments, every lantern was filled.
A small group of agents had trapped Octavius Wrench in a brass fuel-burning lantern and then used an uncommon chair to detain Hemlock. As soon as she sat down, the chair crossed its armrests over her lap like it was folding its arms, buckling her into place. Ivy ran over to where the Sands of Change was glinting in the mud. She picked it up, and, after checking that the clasp was safely unfastened, she wiped it clean on her sleeve and stuffed it in her pocket.
When Ivy returned to the others, she saw a familiar figure in a long coat striding out of the Great Gates toward them. “So you’re still alive,” Curtis said, holding a hand to her
chest, although she was scowling. “Your gloves were flagged at the gates of Strassa; I was about to come after you when Nubrook went into lockdown.”
“Seb and I didn’t want to get you into trouble,” Ivy said honestly, “but we had to sneak away. It was a matter of life and death.”
Curtis glared at them for a long moment, saying nothing. Over her shoulder, Ivy noticed the remaining army of the dead fleeing as officers from Lundinor’s Special Branch—Ivy could tell because of their silver braid epaulettes—arrived and filed out into the surrounding area. Ivy knew it was their job to hide the uncommon world, although she wasn’t sure how they were going to cover up the mess.
“This morning will be marked in uncommon history,” Curtis told them, surveying the scene as, under heavy guard, a chair-strapped Hemlock and Octavius Wrench’s lantern were returned to Lundinor. “The Tidemongers will see to it that the Hexroom is incinerated and those two are detained in ghoul holes until their trial. From this day forward there will be no remaining trace of the Dirge.”
Ivy’s nerves softened as the muscles in her body relaxed. The attack had been averted and the people of London were safe. She smiled at her brother. “Mum and Dad are going to be OK.”
“About that…” Curtis pursed her lips. “Your parents were expecting you home five hours ago, and I’ve yet to devise an explanation for where the three of us have been or why we haven’t contacted them.”
“We’ll think of something,” Seb said dismissively. “We can always use the tea technique. It works every time whenever Ivy and I have to lie about uncommon stuff.”
“The tea technique?” Curtis looked bemused.
“First you offer to make them a cup of tea,” Ivy explained. “Then you put sugar in each of their cups. At least two teaspoons.”
Curtis frowned. “How will a sweet beverage convince your parents that we’re telling the truth?”
“It won’t,” Seb said. “What you’ve got to do is wait till they’ve taken their first sip before you start talking. They hate sugar in their tea. As soon as they taste it, they’ll be so distracted they won’t really listen to a word we say.” He chuckled. “You know, you should feel privileged—we’ve never told any of our babysitters that tip before.”
A faint smile traced Curtis’s lips. “I see.”
“Do you know what happened to everyone paralyzed by Alexander’s Statue Salt?” Valian asked, his arm clamped around Rosie’s shoulders. “Will they be OK?”
Curtis gave a respectful nod to Rosie and Mr. Rife. “After what you both did in Nubrook and Strassa—freeing the citizens with that music box—we have sent instructions to other underguard forces around the world. They now know what to do in order to reverse its effects.”
Mr. Rife gave a brief smile of acknowledgment, but his gaze was focused on the old lady still sitting beside Seb. Her face glistened with tears as she stared up at them all. He bent down and offered her his polka-dot handkerchief. “Madam,” he said graciously, “is there anything I can do to help?”
“Who are all these people?” she asked, dabbing at her cheeks.
“Why don’t we get you to your feet and I’ll explain,” Mr. Rife reassured her. “Take my arm.” He and Seb helped the woman up. She seemed weak and unsteady.
“You need to be seen by a doctor,” Curtis said. “I’ll show you the way.” She escorted Mr. Rife and the old woman toward a couple of Special Branch officers. Ivy saw one of them fetch a whistle from his pocket. She had seen an underguard officer use one before, on her parents.
“They’re going to clean her memory, aren’t they?” Ivy said. “She won’t have a clue what really happened here.”
“That’s the law,” Seb reminded her. “It’s either that or she has nightmares about Octavius Wrench for the rest of her life. I know which I’d rather have.”
Three people, one of whom was floating, advanced across the cave floor. As they passed Curtis, she bowed her head and muttered, “A rising tide lifts all boats.”
Seb squinted. “Hey, is that Judy?”
“And Mr. Punch?” Ivy’s skin cooled with relief as she recognized the fresh-faced quartermaster. His neatly trimmed auburn beard fell over the lapels of his red-tailed ringmaster’s jacket, and his black top hat sat imperiously straight on his head. Judy skated next to him, her knee now free of the effects of the Statue Salt. Hovering beside them both was Johnny Hands, whose jester’s hat wobbled as he came to a stop. Ivy spotted the long handle of the Sword of Wills poking above his shoulder blades.
“Don’t worry, my dear, I know very well how to use it,” he said, noticing the direction of her gaze. “I’ll have the Great Gates buried and everything returned to normal before you can say ‘Scaramouche, Scaramouche, can you do the fandango?’ ”
“Right…,” Seb commented.
Judy embraced Seb, Ivy, Valian and Rosie in turn. “Here you go,” she said, returning Scratch and the satchel to Ivy. “Thanks for lending him to me. It would have been lonely back there without him.”
Ivy closed her fingers around the little bell. “Good to see you again,” she told him.
“You is too,” Scratch replied. She could sense the broken soul inside him restless with energy now that they were back together.
“What happened to the Sands of Change?” Judy asked. “It’s so powerful—did Octavius Wrench use it?”
Ivy slipped her free hand into her pocket, intending to pull out the Sands of Change, but then she hesitated….No one knew that she had the necklace….If she wanted to, she could use it on Scratch….
“Not that we saw,” Seb said to Judy. “Maybe Octavius didn’t have the mental strength to wield the Sword of Wills and use the Sands of Change at the same time.”
“I have the Sands of Change right here,” Ivy said, quickly deciding it would be safer if she handed it over to Johnny Hands. She retrieved it from her pocket and held it up for all to see. The gem glittered in the morning sun. “I picked it up after Octavius Wrench dropped it. What will the Tidemongers do with it?”
Johnny Hands collected the jewel into a handkerchief and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans. “We will keep it safe,” he said firmly. “Judy has explained how it has changed her; there may be a way to utilize its powers to help any dead who wish to become Departed, and so end this soulmates crisis once and for all.” Regarding Scratch in Ivy’s grasp, Johnny Hands winked and lowered his voice: “I’m sure—for special cases—we may be able to loan it out.”
“Agent Hands?” a voice called from the trees. “Sir, we need you.”
Johnny Hands waved. “On my way!” He patted Ivy on the head as if she was a small puppy. “See you around, Ivy Sparrow. I hope our paths cross again.”
After he’d left, Mr. Punch crouched to address them all. He peered into their faces one after the other—Rosie’s, Valian’s, Seb’s and then Ivy’s. “Thank you,” he said simply.
“What happened?” Ivy asked him. “The army burst through the gates; we couldn’t see you—”
“I got trapped inside Lundinor during the fighting,” he explained. “If it hadn’t been for your quick thinking, the Dirge would have won.” He bowed his head in respect. “Uncommoners everywhere are in your debt.” From behind his back he brought out Amos Stirling’s journal. Ivy noticed the pages were badly water-stained and crinkled, and she assumed the damage had occurred on top of Breath Falls.
“This was just recovered from Octavius Wrench,” Mr. Punch said. “I wanted to return it to its rightful guardian.”
“Me?” Ivy replied as Mr. Punch handed the notebook over. “Surely it would be safer if you kept hold of it from now on?”
He gave her a kind smile. “There is no secret among those pages greater than the one you have just protected. Because of your actions, the entire uncommon world remains hidden. I doubt there is anyone better qualified to watch over Amos’s journal than you.”
Ivy mumbled a bashful “thank you” as she slipped the journal back into her satchel. She looke
d at the old lady Mr. Rife was looking after. “Will commoners ever learn the truth about us, do you think?”
“Not all secrets can remain hidden,” Mr. Punch pronounced, glancing at Rosie and Valian. “Maybe one day commoners will learn who we are, but until then we must continue to protect them from the dangers of our world and the dangerous people in it….” He gestured toward Ivy’s satchel. “Amos spent his life trying to do that. Perhaps, in time, you’ll continue from where he left off.”
As Ivy placed her hand on the door knocker, she heard the thud of feet, and the door swung open.
“You’re here!” Judy laughed as she ushered Ivy and Seb inside Hoff & Winkle’s Hobsmatch Emporium. It was the winter trading season in Lundinor, and in fitting with the style of all the other shops, Hoff & Winkle’s was situated on the ground floor of a rickety old Victorian house with a crooked black roof and dusty leaded windows.
“Sorry we couldn’t come sooner,” Ivy said with a smile. “We had school.”
Judy was wearing faded jeans, a cropped leather jacket and one of Seb’s long gray Ripz T-shirts. Now that they were dating, Judy occasionally borrowed his clothes.
In the hallway they bumped into Mr. Rife, hanging his cape over a hook on the wall. He was holding a bunch of pale lilac flowers. “These are for the birthday girl. Sky-blue sun orchids, all the way from Tasmania. I picked them myself.”
“You’re traveling again?” Ivy asked. Sasspirits like Mr. Rife, she’d learned, healed very slowly. After the injuries he’d sustained during the Thanksgiving Battle, she hadn’t been sure he’d be able to operate his uncommon pram so soon by himself.
The Deadly Omens Page 20
