by Robin Jarvis
Then, finally, she found her voice.
“Sod you!” she cried.
Spinning around, Emma ran. The demon came pouncing over the topmost step and landed on the high path with a gloating gargle. The dreadful fire of its eyes blazed at her. The brutal head pulled into the wide shoulders. The fangs scraped together. Then it gave chase.
The path ran level for a short distance then dipped again as that hill ended. Emma bolted down the far steps. Then almost flew up the next. The monster came bellowing after, raking up sand and shingle with its claws. It leaped across the gulf between the two hills, closing the gap between it and her.
Emma could hear the thing getting nearer and nearer. She heard its vicious growls and snarls and the crunching of its snapping jaws. What the hell was it? Where had it come from? Frantic, the girl pushed herself harder than she ever had. She thought of that dismembered rabbit and ran even faster.
“Dad!” she cried. “Dad – where are you? You useless waster!”
Up on that high, hummocky sandhill, the terrified girl and the fiend that pursued her were two black shapes silhouetted against the night sky. There was a wild roar and the hunter catapulted itself forward. The shapes tangled into one. A girl’s shrill scream blistered over the nature reserve and the creature had her.
Chapter 26
The Queen of Spades’ dark daughter, is it blood in her veins or water?
EMMA TAYLOR BLINKED her eyes open. There was a dull throbbing pain on the side of her head. She sucked cold air through clenched teeth and winced. She was so tired. Her limbs were so heavy. Then she remembered.
With a blast of returning horror, the girl sat up. The pain thumped even louder in her head.
“You should not have run away like that,” the Queen of Spades told her. “Mauger is not very gentle. If he hadn’t been given the most strict commands, there’s no knowing what he would have done to you.”
Emma looked around groggily. She was lying at the bottom of the sandhill. The state of her clothes and hair told her she had tumbled all the way down it. She realised, with a sickening sense of hopelessness, it was not the side that faced the road.
That great gang of weirdos was gathered in front of her. Conor Westlake was among them. She wished she had the strength to kick him again. The girl looked nervously into the shadows on either side of her. Where was it? Where was that… that awful thing?
“Mauger is back yonder,” the Queen of Spades reassured her, guessing what was in her mind and waving vaguely at the dark nature reserve. “He likes to catch rabbits. Sometimes he eats them. Sometimes he just pulls them apart for fun. Soon he will progress to larger playmates.”
“What is it?” Emma asked, shivering at the memory of the horrendous face that jumped on her. “Some experiment gone wrong? Sew it together from zoo leftovers, did you? It’s disgusting.”
“He is the Growly Guardian of the Gateway,” the woman answered. “He has been awakened, as other things shall waken and they also shall pass through.”
“You sad, mad cow! You should get yourself a chihuahua instead, luv. That’d be so much more you.”
The Queen of Spades was not listening. She turned aside and the fat policeman took her place, the book and torch in his hands.
“Let it be done,” the woman instructed. “If she tries to escape, Mauger may not be so biddable and obedient a second time. If she tries her little scissors on him – he may just bite her arm off.”
Emma heard her and tried not to look scared, but inside she was frothing with fear. What were they going to do to her? Would they chop her up and use the bits to make more freaks of nature? What filthy cult was this? Some kind of Frankenstein appreciation society?
The officer shone the torch on the open pages and a thrill of expectation spread through the waiting crowd. He began to read and then Emma heard the most wonderful sound in the world – a car engine.
Behind the sandhills, her father was speeding down View Point Road. She twisted about and shouted at the top of her voice.
“Dad! Dad! I’m here!”
“Be quick!” the Queen of Spades urged the policeman.
Emma tried to make a break for it. She scrambled up the dune. If she could only reach the road – her old man was bound to see her. But the crowd would not let her. Those at the front were too quick. They surged forward and snatched at her, dragging her back down. Then they stood in a tight circle around her.
“Dad!” she howled. “I’m here! Da—”
A rough hand pushed against her lips. There was something greasy and bitter on the fingers. They pushed into the girl’s mouth and slathered the unctuous matter over her tongue. Emma choked and gagged in shock. Her tongue curled up as an acrid stinging burned down her throat. Her eyes watered and she fell back against the legs that hemmed her in.
Spluttering, she looked up at the pitiless faces and the policeman’s voice droned on. The words drilled into her mind, becoming one with that overwhelming sharpness. She felt a dark curtain lifting. Something was slipping away from her, but she didn’t mind. It didn’t matter now. Her head buzzed. The people around her began to nod in unison, caught in the enchantment’s rhythm. A cold breath kissed the back of her neck. Her vision swam. The words of Austerly Fellows embraced her, drew her in, loved her as nothing else ever could, promised to sustain and keep her, to coddle and bless her through all of time. There was only sweetness, warmth and pleasure and a wondrous unfurling. How bright it was!
Cradling her chin in her hands, she gazed down over the balcony. Hundreds of candles were ablaze in the Great Hall. Evergreen garlands had been strung between the arches and golden ribbons were tied round the stone pillars. Beneath the high, jewel-coloured windows, the long oak table had been pushed against the wall. It was groaning with delicious-looking dishes.
The kitchens had been preparing for this night for weeks. Every species of bird and hoofed beast was roasted and glistening on golden platters, decorated with their previous plumage or slices of orange, or piped with patterns of soft cheese studded with cherries and almonds, and stuffed with mushrooms and chestnuts. There were three suckling pigs glazed with honey, a golden apple in each little snout. Loaves had been baked in fancy shapes: hedgepigs, smiling moons, rayed stars, wheat sheaves, round towers and even little coffins with sprigs of rosemary sticking out of them, looking like the feet of dead crows. There were bowls piled high with candied fruits and exquisite little brown cakes topped with yellow cream and crystallised petals of roses and violets. There were kilderkins of strong ale for the knights, rundlets of wine for the Under Kings and Queens and a jorum of spiced punch for the other guests.
It was a sumptuous feast and the delicious smells that rose from the table filled the vast hall – swelling up into the high ceiling. Along the oak beams there, mice crept dreamily, taking deep, delightful breaths of the mouth-watering scents and yearning for the revel to be over so they could sneak down and reap the crumbs.
The Jill of Spades cared nothing for the delectable spread. The minstrels were already playing and the girl tapped her toes to the cheery tune. It promised to be a great night. The guests were arriving early, so as not to miss a moment of this most special festivity. Old Ramptana the Court Magician was fussing with some props as he continued to rehearse for the performance he was to give later. Then his long white beard got tangled up in a trick with a length of rope and he had to go scurrying away to extricate his whiskers.
The Ismus was down there, sitting upon the carved chair that stood before the Waiting Throne, and the Lady Labella was at his side. Both were dressed in their finest, for the autumn revel was one of the grandest nights of the calendar. Jill studied their attire with interest then turned her attention to the gathering guests.
“Let us see, let us see!” an anxious voice cried out behind her.
“We want to look, we want to see the fashions!” called another.
The Jill of Spades turned around and looked down crossly. Two rag dolls were hurrying alon
g the gallery to join her. One of them was limping. They dashed to the edge and thrust their soft heads between the balustrades.
“Ooh!” exclaimed Ashrella, the doll made from grey and black silks, with woollen hair, lacy skirt and glass bead eyes. “The Queen of Hearts is getting fat! If she had an apple in her mouth, she’d look just like those suckling pigs!”
“But not as tasty!” snickered the other doll. This one was made from scraps of different coloured velvet, with gold buttons for eyes. There was a moth bite on one of its legs, which caused it to hobble along. It had been a gift from the Lockpick when Jill was very young. Two cloth keys were sewn about the doll’s neck and so the girl had called it Keykey.
“Coo – there’s Magpie Jack!” Ashrella declared, pointing her stubby hand at a slight figure moving through the crowd. “He looks pale. Has he been in gaol again? See how he covets the ladies’ necklaces! It’s jools, jools, jools all the way with him, isn’t it?”
“There’s his mother!” Keykey observed. “What is she wearing? That wimple so does not match that gown with those scalloped daggings – what a frocktroll!”
“And there is the Jill of Hearts. What a beauty she’s grown into, much fairer than our own plain, sulky-faced Jill of Spades. See how every head turns to get their eyeful! Lords and ladies – they’re all drooling.”
“What a steamy strumpet! She’s loving it. Even the pages are tripping up as she glides by. A proper wanton saucepot she’s become. Is anyone safe from her?”
“Such a goodly number of knights,” Ashrella sighed. “How their armour blazes under the candles.”
“I’ve never seen so many shiny cuirasses in one place!” the other doll tittered.
“And look at the hair on that matron – did she cut it with a blunt sword?”
Keykey hopped up and down in excitement. “There’s the Jack of Clubs!” she squealed. “He is well comely!”
“He can unpick my stitching any time he likes!” Ashrella agreed, wagging her head through the balustrades. “Such a shapely leg in that hose and how becoming the hanging sleeves are on his fine shoulders.”
“Oh – oh – look – there’s Malinda. She’s still got that old pink dress with the gold lace and stars! Get something new off the mercers, dearie!”
“Or freshen it up with accessories at least! Some new dangle purses – gold slippers, a jewelled shawl… even one of those two-horned headdresses would lift that tired old look. Does she even wash that frock? Looks musty to me.”
“She probably stinks of old lady pee.”
“No wonder she lives out in the woods then, away from the dainty noses of the gentry.”
“And see the Ismus! Oh, how fine he looks in that black velvet.”
“Labella too, she looks well in purple.”
“Nay – the Ismus could do better – and he does, frequently!”
The dolls began giggling.
“What are you two doing here?” the Jill of Spades demanded angrily.
The dolls took no notice of her at first until they spotted a man meandering through the guests below. He was dressed in a tight costume of caramel-coloured leather, with a matching cap. The dolls drew back at once and shrank fearfully into the shadows.
“Well?” the Jill of Spades asked impatiently. “How did you get out? Why are you here?”
Ashrella folded its silken arms and tilted its overstuffed head – huffily. “It’s horrible in that cupboard!” it said. “You never play with us any more.”
“It’s not fair!” Keykey agreed. “You used to take us everywhere. Now we never get to see anyone. You wouldn’t like being shut away with only a cup and ball and a wooden elephant with a wheel missing for company.”
“We wanted to see the party!” Ashrella said defiantly. “We love parties.”
“You can’t just forget about us, not after all this time.”
“I didn’t forget,” Jill replied. “But I’m too old to play with you now.”
“Too old?” Ashrella squawked indignantly.
“You’re the one who bullied the Jack of Diamonds into stealing the soul sparks to put into each of us when you were younger!” Keykey remonstrated.
“That’s why Haxxentrot set the itch into his palm when she caught him rummaging in her Forbidden Tower!”
“You can’t undo what was done. You have to care for us. We’re yours for the rest of your days. That was the bargain you made, those were the terms you accepted, to free Jack and get the life spells.”
“If I’d known how annoying you two would become, I would have let Jack rot in that dungeon and got myself a goldfinch instead – at least that would sing. You two never could.”
“That’s just spiteful,” Ashrella said, greatly offended. “We were your only friends for years and years. Then you grew up and weren’t fun any more.”
“And you’re a nasty piece of work,” Keykey put in. “There’s only us knows just how cold and cruel you really are and what dark ambitions you have. We could tell on you, we could.”
“Easily.”
The girl laughed. “Who’d believe two old mothy dolls, driven mad by being locked in a cupboard for three years?”
“One moth bite!” Keykey cried dismally. “Just one little nibble on my knee. It’s not much. It could be so much worse. The neglect we suffer would make the stones of Mooncaster weep.”
“You’re heartless!” Ashrella moaned to the girl. “We’re never going back in the cupboard again.”
The Jill of Spades snatched them up in a temper and stormed over to the nearest iron candle stand and held the dolls close to the flames.
“If we burn then so do you!” Ashrella cried, the glass bead eyes flashing fiercely. “That’s how the bargain was sealed, with two pinpricks of your own red blood. You can’t destroy us without bringing about your own end.”
The girl’s face quivered with rage. She knew the doll was right. The closer she held the dolls to the flame, the more she felt the fierce heat herself. The soul sparks that gave them life had been bonded to her. Without her, they would revert to being lifeless rags and her own doom was tied up with their fate.
“Then it’s back to the cupboard for you!” she growled. “And this time I’ll drag a heavy chest in front of it so you’ll never get out again!”
“No!” the dolls protested. “The ball has just started. We want to see the new dances!”
The Jill of Spades was not listening. She strode from the gallery and out on to the battlements. A fork of lightning ripped through the clouded night sky. A Punchinello guard leaned on his spear and watched her curiously. The girl hurried down the steps, across the lawns – until the North Tower reared into the night before her. The banners of the Royal House of Spades jumped in and out of the lightning flashes. With a backward glance at the Great Hall, whose windows were ablaze with candlelight and from where the sprightly music was playing merrily, she pushed open the stout door and hastened up the spiralling stairs.
Her chamber was on the topmost level. When she reached it, she was out of breath.
“You’re mean!” Ashrella told her. “We told her you were mean.”
Jill paused before she opened her door. “Told who?” she asked.
“The one who let us out of course,” Keykey replied. “How else do you think we escaped that nasty locked cupboard?”
“Who let you out?” the girl demanded. “Who has dared enter my bedchamber?”
“The one who is waiting there still,” Ashrella answered with a sly smile.
The Jill of Spades glared at her door. She threw the dolls down. They wailed when they hit the floor, but bounced back up again and punched her legs with their soft, mitten-like hands. She did not feel them. Her whole attention was focused on that door. Very quietly, she reached for the secret dagger she always carried, strapped to her arm, under her sleeve. Then she kicked the door wide and leaped into the chamber.
For a moment she stood, poised and ready to strike out. But no attack came. Her eyes d
arted quickly about the room. The bed, hung with black, beaded lace, was empty and there was no one hiding beneath it. Nor was there anyone behind the chests and cupboards. Another jag of lightning crackled above the tower and then the Jill of Spades saw her.
There she was, an old wizened woman, crouched upon the sill of the arched window. A tall, conical hat was fastened to her head by a wide, brown ribbon, tied beneath her warty chin. She wore a dark green cloak over her ragged clothes and a two-pronged hayfork was clasped in her gnarled hands.
“Haxxentrot!” Jill cried.
The witch cackled and raised the hayfork in greeting. “Well met on this harvest home night, my dark little maid,” she greeted.
“Begone!” the girl commanded. “Before I summon the Guards. You have no business here.”
“No business?” the hag shrieked. “No business? Have you forgot who supplied thee with playmates when no other child would suffer thee? A brooding, hateful brat thou wert, but a treacherous, iron-hearted woman thou art becoming. Who else but Haxxentrot would have any business with thee?”
“Guards!” the girl called. “Come quickly!”
“Very foolish,” the witch said, hearing the Punchinello Guards come stomping towards the North Tower. “Now I must be brisk and brutal.” With that, she clapped her bony hands and the two rag dolls went scampering over to her and climbed on to her lap.
“Good mother!” they called happily. “Bear us away. We don’t like it here. You won’t shut us in a cupboard. You won’t forget us.”
The crone bent her ugly head to kiss them and her eyes gleamed at Jill. “You should have taken better care of your playfellows, my dark missy,” she said. “They are mine to bid now. If old Haxxentrot asks them to leap into the fire, they would do so, full willing… and you know what that would mean for thee.”
