by Lari Don
For Colin
Thank you for all those cold, wet, muddy trips
to Dufftown and the Cabrach
(And for everything else you do that
makes my writing possible.)
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Extract from ‘The Shapeshifter’s Guide to Running Away’
Also By Lari Don
Copyright
Chapter 1
The moment Molly heard the dog growl behind her, she dropped to the ground, low and crouching.
Her world grew wider. She could see almost the whole way round the playing fields without moving her head.
She looked down and saw fur.
On her hands.
Only they weren’t hands. They were long brown paws. She twitched. The paws twitched under her.
Oh no, she thought. Not again.
Then she heard the dog louder and closer. Above her, she saw black slavering jaws open wide, yellow teeth ready to snap her spine.
So Molly ran. She ran swift and straight, right across the playing fields. Running faster than she ever thought she could. She had no idea how she was running like this. This incredible fast leaping flight, feet barely touching the ground.
The dog sprinted after her, barking its determination to catch her and rip her and kill her.
Molly ran faster. But the dog was close behind and the hedge at the edge of the playing fields was a long way off.
She was running on instinct. Running because she was being chased. Running because it felt like the right thing to do, with these legs, and this blood pumping through her veins.
But she had no idea what to do next. Would the dog get tired before her? Could she escape if she just kept running?
Then she felt the dog’s hot breath on her tail.
Without thinking, Molly switched direction. She leapt to one side and started running parallel to the hedge, away from the straight-line course the dog was struggling to alter.
Her legs had done that. Not her head.
She’d escaped the dog for a moment, but now she wasn’t running towards the safety of the hedge.
Molly could see the whole park, all the way around, apart from a narrow blind spot right in front of her nose and another blind spot directly behind her. Her wide field of vision showed the black-and-white hunter hurtling towards her again.
So she ran at amazing grass-skimming speed, dodging towards the hedge, then away, then towards the hedge again.
The dog howled in frustration behind her.
She sprinted and jumped, until at last she reached the hedge and ducked under its lowest branches.
On the other side, Molly tumbled to the ground, landing on her knees and ripping her jeans open.
She gulped a lungful of cold autumn air, glanced at her trembling hands to check they were pale skin, not brown fur, then stood up and looked over the hedge.
A black-and-white greyhound was panting and grinning up at her. Molly gasped and stepped back.
“Oy! Linford!” The man running up behind the dog was red-faced and waving a lead. “Don’t worry about him, he won’t hurt you. He’s had his exercise for today, haven’t you, Linford? Did you see them? Did you see how fast they ran?”
“No,” said Molly. “Who was running fast?”
“He was chasing a hare! A beautiful long-legged brown hare.”
“A hare?”
“Aye, a hare. Like a rabbit but bigger, stronger, smarter and much faster. And it only just got away. Greyhounds were bred to catch hares, and I bet you’d have caught her, yes you would,” he rubbed his dog’s ears, “you’d have caught her if you’d had a longer run at her.”
He smiled at Molly, clipped the lead on the dog’s collar and walked off.
“A hare,” said Molly again.
So that’s what she was. A hare…
Chapter 2
Molly frowned at the headrest of the seat in front of her as they drove through Craigvenie.
Her great-aunt insisted that Molly sat in the back seat, just like when she was little and her mum and dad used to dump her in Speyside for holiday weekends. Molly should probably be grateful she didn’t have to squash into the old baby seat she’d seen in the boot when she threw in her overnight bag.
“But why are we going to this farm?”
“Because Aggie Sharpe can help you,” said Aunt Doreen, for the fifteenth time that morning.
“But why do you think she can help me? Anyway, I don’t need help.”
“You do need help, my dear. I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I know you shouldn’t be screaming yourself awake at night and you shouldn’t be ripping so many pairs of jeans either. I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong.”
Molly didn’t say anything.
Doreen snorted. “When we get there, I’ll show you why I think Aggie can help.”
Molly sighed. She hoped there weren’t any dogs on this farm.
Her aunt parked beside a shop in the middle of fields and farm buildings. Molly read the carved wooden sign over the door:
Aunt Doreen pushed Molly and her bag into the shop, which was filled with shelves of fruit and herbs, sacks of tatties, boxes of carrots and lots of customers.
Molly wandered towards the lettuces, but Doreen guided her towards the back wall. “Look!”
Molly glanced at leaflets pinned up higgledy piggledy on a cork noticeboard:
“There!” Doreen prodded a faded flyer printed with black and red letters on silver paper:
Curse-Lifting Workshops
All you need to know about lifting curses
Will work on personal curses, family curses, historical curses
Guaranteed result
5-day course runs during October school holidays every year
Participants must be between 11 and 21 years old. Residential only, ask at till for details
Molly muttered, “Why would I want a curse-lifting workshop? I’m not cursed!”
“Really? When your dad left you here for the tattie holidays, he said you were getting moodier as you got older and I might notice some changes. But he didn’t expect you to change species, did he? I know you say nothing’s wrong, but I remember the old stories and I recognise the signs. So you’ll spend the first week of your holidays at Aggie Sharpe’s workshop, because I can’t send you home to Edinburgh until you’re back to normal. Let’s check it’s not fully booked.”
She turned to the till.
“Morning Doreen,” said the tall white-haired woman behind the counter. “More grain for your hens?”
Doreen lowered her voice. “I don’t need chicken feed today. It’s my great-niece. She needs… go on, tell Mrs Sharpe…”
Molly shook her head. She didn’t need some old wifey who knitted her own underwear to help her. She didn’t need anyone’s help. She wasn’t cursed. She couldn’t be cursed, because curses didn’t exist. If she ju
st avoided dogs, everything would be fine.
She tried to back out of the shop, but Aunt Doreen grabbed her arm.
“She needs to do the workshop. You know…” Doreen nodded at the leaflet, “the curse-lifting workshop.” She mouthed the words, just breathing the sounds, but Molly was sure everyone in the shop heard.
Mrs Sharpe smiled kindly at Molly. “What’s the problem?”
“There is no problem. No problem at all. Thank you very much.”
“She annoyed Mr Crottel and she’s not been herself since,” explained Doreen. “Do you have a spare place on the course?”
Mrs Sharpe frowned. “Mr Crottel. Oh, dear.” She looked straight at Molly, staring almost rudely at her face, then at her trembling hands. She nodded. “I can squeeze you in.”
“And you guarantee results?” murmured Doreen.
“All the guarantees are in here.” Mrs Sharpe lifted a heap of paper from under the counter. “Do you want to read it now?”
Doreen fumbled her glasses out of her handbag and peered at the small print. “I’ll take your word for it, Aggie. And there’s no need to fill in a form.” Doreen swung Molly behind the counter. “Here she is. She’s Molly Drummond, she’s eleven years old and I’ll be back for her at the end of the week.” Then she rushed out of the shop.
Molly turned to Mrs Sharpe. “I’m not cursed,” she whispered.
“Let’s not quibble about wording, my dear, spells and enchantments are covered too. I’m busy in the shop just now, so go round to the barn yourself. Out this back door, turn right, head for the red door. Your classmates are already there. Go in and introduce yourself. Don’t be shy.”
“I’m not shy,” muttered Molly. “And I’m not cursed…”
But all the customers were staring at her, leeks and apples and parsley in their hands, so she muttered thanks to the old lady and pushed out through the back door.
There was a wooden building to her right. She walked towards it, opened the red door and stepped inside.
***
Molly walked into a cold barn filled with wooden desks and chairs. She saw a tall wide-shouldered boy with very short blond hair leaning against an old-fashioned blackboard. Standing in front of the boy, scowling at him, was a slim girl with a cloud of suspiciously purple hair. They broke off their argument to stare at Molly.
Molly pushed her own short brown hair behind her ears, took another step inside and pulled the door behind her.
“Don’t stand on the toad!” yelled the girl.
Molly looked down. There was a sand-coloured frog in front of her. At least, it looked like a frog. But maybe the purple-haired girl was an expert on amphibians and it was actually a toad.
“We don’t know the toad’s name,” said the boy. “But presumably you can tell us yours.”
“I’m Molly Drummond and I don’t think I’m in the right place.”
“Did Mrs Sharpe send you here?” he asked.
Molly nodded reluctantly.
“Then you’re in the right place.”
Molly didn’t want this to be the right place, so she shook her head.
“Are you looking for a different course?” the boy asked. “Nurture your own bread dough was last week and next week is…”
“Knit your own underwear,” said Molly, trying not to smile.
He grinned. “Yes. But this week is curse lifting. We’re both in the right place.” He gestured to the girl and himself. “And I assume the toad is in the right place. If you’re sure you’re in the wrong place, you’d better go back to the shop and buy some cabbages.”
He turned to the girl. “And you’re wrong about Mrs Sharpe—”
“Hold on,” interrupted Molly. “You’re actually here for a curse-lifting workshop?”
“Of course,” said the girl. “Mrs Sharpe only runs it once a year. I’ve been waiting all my life to be old enough to do it.”
Molly looked at the boy, who had the right number of arms and legs, and was dressed in an ordinary white shirt and jeans. She looked at the girl, who was pale and pretty and Goth-looking, with her purple hair, droopy black clothes and silver jewellery. Neither of them seemed particularly odd or obviously magical.
“But…” Molly hesitated. “But are you both cursed?”
The girl nodded. “Aren’t you?”
“Of course not. I don’t believe in curses or spells or magic or frogs turning into princes. I’m not cursed,” she said, so firmly she almost convinced herself, “and I’m not staying…”
Then a cat walked out from behind a desk.
A big black cat.
A huge black cat, its head higher than Molly’s waist.
But it wasn’t a cat. It couldn’t be a cat. Because it had narrow black wings folded over its back and a long-nosed, elegant, almost-human face.
The black creature walked right towards Molly.
Molly sat down, very fast, on the floor. Almost landing on the toad.
The girl with the bushy purple hair picked the toad up and placed it on a desk. “You’ll be safer there.”
Then the boy and the girl grabbed an arm each, pulled Molly up and sat her on a wobbly school chair.
The not-quite-cat sat down neatly in front of Molly, opened its human mouth and spoke in a soft deep voice. “This week, you’ll have to believe in curses and spells and magic. My name is Atacama and I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Molly took a deep breath. “Pleased to meet you too, Atacama.”
The girl perched on the wooden desk opposite Molly. “I’m Beth and I’m here because my family has been cursed for years. Atacama is here because he was cursed last week. And this is—”
“I can introduce myself, thank you,” said the boy. “I’m Innes and my brother was killed by a curse last year. I’m here to lift the curse before it kills me and the rest of my family too. Atacama, Beth and I are neighbours, we all live in or near the local tributaries of the River Spey. But we’ve never met the toad before, and we’ve never met you. So why are you here, Molly?”
“I don’t know. I’m not cursed.” She sighed. If she wasn’t cursed, what was happening to her?
Innes frowned. “Did Mrs Sharpe accept you on the workshop?”
Molly nodded.
“Then she thinks you’ve been cursed and she thinks it can be lifted. So you’d better admit that to yourself.” He smiled. “Then tell us all about it.”
Molly shook her head.
Beth scowled at Innes. “Stop trying to make friends with her. Just let her leave. If she doesn’t believe in curses or spells, she’ll make this workshop impossible. If we waste days waiting for her to admit curses exist, then days studying ‘Curses for Babies’, we won’t have time to learn any complex curse lore by the end of the week, and we might not get our own curses lifted.”
Innes shrugged. “So let’s teach her the ABC of curses ourselves, then Mrs Sharpe won’t have to.”
Atacama nodded. “If we share our basic knowledge with the human girl this afternoon, we’ll all be better prepared for whatever wisdom the witch plans to teach us this evening.”
Molly was still struggling to concentrate on the meaning of any words coming out of the winged black cat’s human mouth, but she heard one of them loud and clear.
“The witch? Mrs Sharpe is a witch?”
Chapter 3
“Of course I’m a witch.” Mrs Sharpe’s wrinkled face appeared round the edge of the red door. “That’s why I run grimoire book groups and teach curse-lifting workshops. That’s why my herbal teabags are famous all over Speyside.”
“But what about the underwear knitting workshops?” asked Molly.
“Everyone needs to keep warm in winter, my dear. Even witches. So, have you all made friends?”
Beth snorted, and Atacama said, “We’re getting to know Molly, but we haven’t had time to chat to the toad.”
“The toad? I don’t have a toad on the register.” Mrs Sharpe looked at the large warty amphibian squatting on
the desk. “We can get you signed up later.”
“Are we starting now?” Innes sat down, opened a notebook and held up a sharp pencil.
“Not yet. The first lesson will be tonight, after the last customer has left. In the meantime, you can howk the tatties out of the narrow field.”
“We’re here to learn, not to work,” muttered Beth.
“You can consider your curses while you dig, and if you work until you’re bone-tired and a bit sorry for yourselves, you’ll be in the right frame of mind for learning tonight. I’ve put forks, buckets and wellies outside the door, so get started.”
Mrs Sharpe nodded to them and shut the door behind her. The door closed smoothly and quietly, not creakily and spookily like Molly would have expected a witch’s door to sound.
Beth sighed. “That’s what I was trying to tell you, Innes. She holds this workshop in October to get free labour at harvest time. She told my uncle that because students can think about curses and dig at the same time, it’s easier to get her tatties lifted by this workshop than by the bread-making or sew your own teabag ones. But I don’t want to be slave labour for a witch!”
Innes rolled up his sleeves. “I don’t mind giving her a hand. Every single being who does this workshop goes home without their curse. I’ll happily dig all her fields if I can lift the curse on my family. Come on, everyone…”
***
Molly was bending down in a muddy field, wearing someone else’s flappy wellies, digging up potatoes with a fork and dropping them in a red bucket.
She straightened up, stretched the kinks out of her spine and looked around.
She knew the toad was somewhere nearby. When they’d arrived in the field, Beth had reminded them to keep an eye out so they didn’t stand on the toad or drive a fork into it. Then the toad had started digging, slower than the rest of them, but still working hard. The toad had also surprised Molly by walking from each plant to the next in a sprawly sort of crawl, rather than hopping.
