Pure Dead Magic

by Debi Gliori

  “But that case of yours,” insisted Latch. “You should have said …”

  Mrs. McLachlan dropped her gaze to meet his. “Said what?” she demanded. “ ‘Oh, Latch, here I have a wee case that combines a superintelligent computer with some good old-fashioned magic, so step back and let little old me take care of this gun-wielding criminal.…’ or, ‘Move over, dear, and let a real witch take care of this.’ Get real, laddie—you’d never have believed me.”

  “Um”—Latch scratched furiously under his kilt—”er … yes … you’re absolutely right. But I believe you now.” He paused and suddenly pleaded, “Flora—could you use it, the case, to do something about this stupid tartan skirt?”

  Mrs. McLachlan’s laughter rang out over the meadow, merging with the distant putter of the nighttime lobster boat that tracked a line of silver across the sea loch.

  In the Schloss kitchen, Marie Bain dozed in an ancient settle, her slipperless feet propped on Knot’s woolly back, a cookbook open spine up across her lap.

  In the cellar, the mended freezer hummed and clicked, drawing Strega-Nonna deeper and deeper into permafrost.

  “Titus,” said Pandora, appearing at his bedroom door.

  “Nhuh?” He looked up from the pages of a computer manual.

  “Can I come in? My bedroom’s a dump, I’ve got nothing to read, and I’ve only got a pile of broken matchsticks to sleep on.”

  “You think you’ve got problems,” Titus said, flicking through his manual. “My CD-ROM’s broken. I took it apart and found someone had stuffed bacon rinds in it.”

  “Yeuuchhh,” said Pandora. “That sounds like the kind of stunt that Damp would pull.…”

  “Babies are so gross,” said Titus.

  “I’m never going to have any when I’m old,” said Pandora.

  “I’m never going to grow old,” vowed Titus. “Fifty candles!”

  “Six hundred candles,” groaned Pandora.

  “You’d never be able to blow them out,” said Titus.

  “Fancy a little wager?” said Pandora.

  “NO, “ said Titus.

  Damp stretched like a small starfish. Her parents on either side of her groaned and clung on to their tiny allowance of edge-of-bed. The baby lay in the darkness, surrounded by the smell of sleep that clung to the comforter, debating whether to whimper, grizzle, or go back to sleep. Something had woken her up. Her eyes flicked open. There it was again—a scratching noise. She couldn’t see anything, even with the full moon shining across the bedroom and pooling on the floor over by the fireplace. Damp’s eyelids closed slowly, her eyelashes casting long shadows across her cheeks. Her mothlike breath changed to something heavier, and within moments, she was deeply asleep.

  Under the bed, Multitudina groaned and clutched her distended stomach with both front paws. Never, never, never again, she vowed. Too much like hard work, she reminded herself in between groans. And besides, she thought frivolously, I’ll never get my girlish figure back if I keep on having babies. Two minutes later, she was gazing in surprise at a tiny pink replica of herself. Was that it? she wondered, just the one? Phew, got off lightly, then—here was me expecting to be expecting at least six.… The tiny bald ratlet opened its mouth to demand room service. As for your name, Multitudina thought, expertly tucking her daughter under one arm, I’ve decided to call you Terminus.…

  A Word from Debi Gliori

  The title Pure Dead Magic harks back to my teenagehood in Glasgow. It was the phrase we employed to reassure, flatter, and smooth ruffled feathers, as in:

  “Don’t I look like a fat blob in these trousers?”

  “Naww, you look pure dead magic.”

  As you can see, it means “very fine indeed, verging on the excellent.” Pure dead anything is a Glaswegian way of underlining your point. As in: “How was school today, darling?” Now, you might say, “It was very boring, but thank you for asking.” Glaswegians would say, “Och, it was pure dead boring.”

  As to pronunciation, you really need the authentic Glaswegian twang to do it justice. To achieve the requisite gravel-throated growliness, you might want to eat fifty-five crackers in a row, thus rendering your mouth as arid as the Gobi Desert. Now pinch your nose closed between forefinger and thumb and try to say the title the way Sean Connery would when he said, “Namesh Bond, Jamesh Bond.” Urrr. Rrrrrghhh. Ochhh.

  Perfect. Pure dead magic, in fact. We’ll make an honorary Scot of you yet.

  Don’t miss the next adventure of the Strega-Borgia clan in

  Pure Dead

  WICKED

  For a sneak peek, turn the page.…

  Excerpt from Pure Dead Wicked

  Copyright © 2002 by Debi Gliori

  Published by Alfred A. Knopf,

  an imprint of Random House Children’s Books

  Elementary Magic

  Much later, Titus was to remark that this must have been the only time in history when a dirty diaper could be said to have saved several lives.

  On that memorable morning, unaware of the terrible danger that hung over their heads, the Strega-Borgia family had been attempting to squash themselves into the interior of their long-suffering family car. Their shopping trip to the nearby village of Auchenlochtermuchty was long overdue, and consequently, all members of the family of two adults and three children were vociferous in their demands that they should not be left behind at home. Titus needed a computer magazine, Pandora had to buy something to eradicate a minuscule crop of pimples that had erupted on her chin, their baby sister, Damp, required more diapers, and their parents, Signor and Signora Strega-Borgia, had to go to the bank and do boring adult stuff.

  As was usual with any planned expedition between StregaSchloss and Auchenlochtermuchty, the process of leaving the house was taking longer than anticipated. Boots and coats had to be retrieved from the cloakroom, Damp had to be supplied with a clean diaper and given a ration of crackers to stave off starvation, and Titus needed to render himself deaf to everything going on around him by the simple expedient of clamping a pair of headphones round his head and pressing the ON button on his Walkman.

  Titus threw himself into the car seat next to Damp, turned up the volume, and settled back with a smile. From outside the car, where she stood with her parents as they went through the ritual of finding checkbooks and car keys, Pandora noted with some satisfaction that Titus’s expression was changing rapidly to one of disgust.

  “PHWOARRR!” he bawled, competing with the deafening sounds inside his headphones. “DAMP! THAT’S DISGUSTING!”

  He struggled with his seat belt, desperate to put as much distance as possible between himself and Damp’s odious diaper. Signor Strega-Borgia groaned, unbuckling his baby daughter and plucking her out of her car seat. Just at the precise moment that both Damp and Titus exited the car, the unthinkable happened.

  A trio of vast and ancient roof slates that had clung to the topmost turret of StregaSchloss for six hundred years, held in place by little more than a clump of moss, broke free of their moorings and began their downward descent. Gathering momentum by the second, they barreled down the steep incline of the roof.

  It all happened so quickly that initially the family were convinced that, for reasons unknown, an invisible bomber had dropped its payload directly onto their car. One minute they were standing around the unfortunate vehicle, happily slandering Damp’s diaper, the next they were lying groaning on the rose-quartz drive, wondering what had hit them.

  “What on earth?” Signor Strega-Borgia picked himself and Damp off the ground and ran to Signora Strega-Borgia to check that she was unharmed.

  “Titus? Pan? Are you all right? Whatever happened?” Signora Strega-Borgia rubbed dirt off her clothes and stared at the car in disbelief.

  “WHAT A WRECK!” yelled Titus, still muffled in his headphones. “LOOK AT IT! IT’S TOTALLY TRASH—OWW!”

  “There,” said Pandora with satisfaction. “That should help.”

  “Did you have to do that?” moan
ed Titus, holding his ears and glaring at his sister. His headphones dangled from Pandora’s hands.

  Signor Strega-Borgia was walking slowly round the wreckage of his car, surveying it from various angles, simultaneously horrified at the damage and amazed at the family’s lucky escape. Embedded in the roof of the car, at a forty-five-degree angle to the battered paintwork, were three huge slabs of slate.

  “We could all have been killed,” said Signor Strega-Borgia reproachfully. He squinted up at the turreted roof of StregaSchloss, attempting to locate the origin of this attempt on his life. Beside him, Signora Strega-Borgia sighed. This was proving to be the most expensive morning’s shopping thus far. To their list of items to be purchased in Auchenlochtermuchty, they now had to add one roof and one family car.

  “We’ll have to get it fixed,” decided Signor Strega-Borgia. “The whole roof looks like it’s in danger of raining down on top of our heads.”

  The family automatically took several hasty steps backward, away from the danger zone. Titus tripped over a low stone wall and fell backward into a herbaceous border with a dismayed howl. Ignoring her son completely, Signora Strega-Borgia addressed her husband. “But that will cost a fortune, Luciano. Look, before we call in the experts, why don’t you let me see if I can mend it. I’m sure there was something I learnt at college that would do the trick.”

  “Darling, I hardly think that your diploma in Primary Magic is a sufficient qualif—” He halted abruptly, alerted by the glacial expression crossing his wife’s face.

  Throwing her black pashmina dramatically across her shoulders, Signora Strega-Borgia stalked away from her husband across the rose quartz until she stood at the head of the steps leading down to the old croquet lawn. “I know you think I’m a half-baked witch, incapable, incompetent …”—she choked back a sob—”… inconsequential.”

  The front door opened and Mrs. Flora McLachlan, nanny to Titus, Pandora, and Damp, emerged into the December chill, shivering as she surveyed the family and their ex-car. “Now, dear,” she admonished, gazing fondly at Signora Strega-Borgia, “there’s no need to be like that. We all know that you’re a very fine witch, indeed.…”

  “Do we?” muttered Pandora.

  “I don’t think so,” whispered Titus, crawling out of the herbaceous border and coming to stand next to his sister. Beside them, Signor Strega-Borgia sighed. If only Baci wasn’t so prickly. He hadn’t meant to insult her. Not really. Just perhaps to remind her that six months into a seven-year degree course in Advanced Magic might mean that her skills weren’t exactly up to speed—yet.

  “I’ll prove you wrong,” Signora Strega-Borgia promised, thrusting her arms wide apart and throwing back her head. Unfortunately this had the effect of making her look like a demented bat, and Titus had to avert his gaze to avoid bursting out laughing.

  “My dear,” said Mrs. McLachlan in alarm, “remember, if you would, that anger can cloud your judgment. Now let’s not be too hasty.…” The nanny started down the steps toward her employer, but it was too late. Signora Strega-Borgia had already produced a small Disposawand from her handbag and was waving it erratically in front of her face.

  “Healerum, Holerum …,”she began.

  “Oh, no,” sighed Pandora, “not that one.”

  “Stick …” Signora Strega-Borgia paused, racked her brain for the correct sequence of words, and continued undeterred, “Stickitum Quickitum, Renderum Fix.”

  There was a flash, a small apologetic puff of pink smoke, and the air was filled with the inappropriate smell of antiseptic cream.

  “Oh, dear!” wailed Signora Strega-Borgia, covering her face with her hands.

  “Oh, dear is right,” groaned Titus.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Baci. Just don’t attempt to fix the car.” Signor Strega-Borgia strode across the drive with Damp under one arm, stamped up the stairs into the house, and, seconds later, they all heard the sound of the bathroom door slamming shut.

  Mrs. McLachlan, her mouth twitching with suppressed laughter, came over to where Signora Strega-Borgia stood hunched under her shawl, shoulders shaking, little sobs escaping from between her fingers.

  “Och, pet,” the nanny soothed, “it’s not the end of the world. There’s rain forecast for this afternoon, and that’ll wash it off, and then we can call in a firm to mend the roof in a more … um …traditional fashion.”

  Signora Strega-Borgia peered out from between her fingers. “Oh, Flora,” she wailed, “I’m useless. I mean, look at it. Look at what I’ve done.”

  At this moment, the sun chose to slide out from behind the clouds and spotlight the vast Band-Aid stuck to the topmost turret of StregaSchloss. The vision of eight hundred and sixty square feet of pink perforated plastic set against the gray slates of the roof was a little disquieting. With a wail, Signora Strega-Borgia ran for the house, her black shawl flapping behind in her wake.

  “Oh, poor Mum,” said Titus, horribly embarrassed by the sight of female tears. “I’d better go and see if I can cheer her up.” He ran after his mother, leaving Pandora and Mrs. McLachlan gazing up at the bandaged roof.

  “Can’t you fix it?” said Pandora. “You know, with your amazing magic makeup case thing?”

  The nanny immediately put her finger to her lips and made a shushing sound.

  Pandora frowned and persisted. “Remember? Last summer? You had that … that sort of transformer that changed …”She faltered. Mrs. McLachlan’s expression was not even remotely encouraging. Moreover, the nanny’s eyes had stopped twinkling. Pandora shivered. Suddenly she felt chilled to the bone.

  “Heavens, is that the time?” Mrs. McLachlan gazed at her watch. “My fudge cake will be ready to come out of the oven in one minute. And you, young lady—not only are you appallingly inquisitive, you’re also freezing cold. Come, child, inside with you.” Taking Pandora’s arm, she propelled her in the direction of the house. On the doorstep she paused and placed a gentle finger on Pandora’s lips. “One: I can’t fix the roof. Two: I don’t have the makeup case anymore. Three: I swapped it for something better, and …”

  “Four?” said Pandora hopefully.

  “If I promise to tell you more when the time is right, would you please forget that we ever had this conversation?”

  “Yes, I promise,” said Pandora, bursting with unanswered questions, “but—”

  “No buts,” said Mrs. McLachlan in such a way as to indicate that not only was the subject closed, it was bolted, padlocked, and, in all probability, nailed shut.

  With a thwarted snort, Pandora followed Mrs. McLachlan inside.

  The Money Hum

  From as far back as anyone could remember, there had always been somebody mending the roof at StregaSchloss. A succession of roofers with good heads for heights had clambered over its slates, scaled its pointy turrets, and once, memorably, poured hot lead over a particularly leaky section. This had caused the attic to burst into flames and initiated a temporary diaspora of several thousand attic-dwelling spiders.

  Like the Forth Road Bridge, the roof at StregaSchloss was never finished. No sooner had one tribe of tradesmen vanished into the surrounding hills clutching a large check than another would appear, bearing scaffolding and slates, a stack of small newspapers with large headlines, and several tartan thermos flasks. Two days after the incident with the slipping slates, the Strega-Borgias braced themselves for the arrival of yet another firm of roofing contractors.

  There was a pattern to this, Titus observed, stepping around a brimming soup tureen placed strategically under a leak from the cupola of the great hall. First of all, the roofers would arrive and consult with Mum. There would be much sucking in of air through teeth (the ferocity of the inhalation indicating how expensive the work was going to be). This would be followed by the traumatic discovery that none of their cell phones would work this far into the wilds of Argyll. Next came the erection of a web of rusty scaffolding; this was Titus’s favorite stage, since his vocabulary of spectacular Anglo-Sa
xon curses had been garnered entirely from listening to these roofing tribes at work.

  Titus practiced a few of these as his bare toes made contact with a particularly squelchy bit of rug in the great hall.

  “I heard that,” muttered Mrs. McLachlan, who came striding along the corridor from the kitchen. “I’ve lost Damp again,” she said, “and I did hear the postman, but where’s the post gone?”

  A distant flushing sound followed by a cacophony of StregaSchloss plumbing alerted them both to Damp’s whereabouts.

  “FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE!” yelled Mrs. McLachlan. “DAMP! STOP IT!” And she shot along the corridor, expertly hurdling over brimming bowls and buckets in a futile attempt to divert the baby from her discovery that flush toilets can make all sorts of things disappear.

  Titus ambled into the kitchen in search of breakfast. An alien reek of powerful aftershave assailed his nostrils. The source of this proved to be a balding man sprawled over the kitchen table across from Signora Strega-Borgia. Papers and glossy brochures were spread out amongst coffee cups and breakfast detritus. Titus’s mother was frowning as she scribbled numbers on the back of an envelope.

  Boring, thought Titus, scanning the shelves in the fridge. Yeuch, he amended, discovering a promising paper bag to be full of yellowing Brussels sprouts.

  “Look at it this way, Mrs. Sega-Porsche,” said the balding man, waving his coffee cup expansively. “It’s like your dentist telling you that your teeth are fine but your gums have to come out.…”

  “I’m not exactly sure that I understand,” muttered Signora Strega-Borgia, frowning even more deeply and looking up from her envelope.

  “Your coffee’s wonderful, by the way,” said Baldy, taking a slurp for emphasis, “best I’ve had for ages.… Anyway, your roof’s fine. Great. Tip-top. Fantastic.”

  “And?” sighed Signora Strega-Borgia.