by Debi Gliori
No, no. Not swallow, pet. I wouldn’t ask you to do that. No. Just bite down instead. Very hard. And don’t worry—Strega-Nonna and I are right behind you. So. After three, bite. One…two…THREE.
Pandora did the needful. She bit down hard, but whatever was in her mouth certainly didn’t feel remotely like school macaroni. There was an awful, hideous shriek—a desperate, lost howl of agony—and through it, Pandora could hear Mrs. McLachlan saying, “Well done, child. Now RUN!” And before Pandora could blink, she found herself stumbling to her feet, pushed and pulled out of the kitchen, along the corridor, through the great hall and out…into the freezing chill of a darkening winter evening.
The Fallen Felled
Titus slowly regained consciousness. At first he felt completely disorientated; then, little by little, he began to piece the whole nightmare together. He wasn’t, thankfully, in a stone box. Instead, he found himself lying on the freezing-cold stone flags of the kitchen floor, surrounded by broken green glass, with his head lolling in a pool of what he at first assumed to be his own blood. That was before he took a deep and calming breath and discovered that he was marinating in spilled champagne rather than his own bodily fluids. Feeling somewhat fragile, he sat up, trying to separate the awful dream from what was rapidly looking like the even more awful reality. Where was everybody? He looked around, blinking in disbelief. Why was the food mixer upside down in the log basket? Who had smashed all the chairs round the kitchen table? And the fridge? Its door had been torn from its hinges and lay to one side as if flung there by someone strong and insanely angry.
The kitchen was…it was trashed, actually. Broken glass littered every surface, and the china cupboard looked as if the same insanely angry fridge-door ripper had swept his hands along each shelf, toppling plates and dropping bowls and platters with no regard for their value or antiquity. Even Tarantella’s favorite teapot had not escaped the whirlwind of destruction. There it was on the floor, with its spout snapped off and lying beside it like an accusing finger. Unaccountably—since he didn’t even like spiders, especially after what he’d just been through—the sight of Tarantella’s broken teapot sanctuary made Titus feel desperately sorry for the tarantula. Bending down to rescue her spout and tuck it in his shirt for safekeeping, he was reminded of what else he had hidden in there. Checking that he was alone, he pulled the front of his shirt away from his chest. Yup. Safe and sound, even after the horrors of the crypt, there they all were, thawing rapidly now and soaking his shirt in the process. Titus gazed down at the tiny clones of himself and Pandora, survivors of a disastrous experiment he’d carried out nearly a year since. More recently, the clones had been tenants in Strega-Nonna’s chest freezer until he’d removed them approximately half an hour ago.
What exactly he hoped to do with the fifty or so shrunken, geriatric versions of himself and his sister was as yet unclear. However, he reminded himself, StregaSchloss was under threat, and the family needed all the help they could get, even if it came in the form of these tiny geriatrics. Tucking the broken teapot spout into the waistband of his boxer shorts like a stumpy ceramic dagger, Titus looked around, wondering if there was anything he could use to protect himself. He briefly considered helping himself to the black-handled meat cleaver, but he couldn’t bring himself to pick it up. Just the thought of its being used to open up a new mouth in someone’s living flesh was enough to give him a brief taste of the spins. Ugh. No way. However, the poultry shears were another matter entirely—sharp, strong, and useful for a variety of tasks, not all of which had to involve blood…. Titus jammed these in to the back pocket of his jeans, an action that he was quite sure would have been number one in a list of Things the Manufacturer Recommends You Don’t Attempt with Your New Shears. But hey. The whole ghastly scenario he was currently dealing with was right up there at number one in the Full-On Nightmare charts. Someone had to do something, he reckoned. Even if that something involved hurting someone before he hurts you. Even if you had to use the shears to—
The room spun around him and he staggered slightly, putting out his hands to regain his balance. His fingers slapped down on one of Mrs. McLachlan’s cake tins, its lid emitting a metallic byoing as it was struck. Now, there was exactly what he needed, Titus realized. Sustenance. What the situation required was a major calorie intake to ward off the dizzy spins and cheer him up slightly. Prizing off the lid, he found the tin to be full of—oh, what joy—cappuccino muffins. He remembered Minty making these little beauties, using some of Luciano’s precious hoard of dark-roast coffee to flavor them. And what a flavor. Titus’s eyes rolled. Phwoaaarrrr. These were strong. What a kick. Wow. Right. Look out—here I come. Titus flung open the door to the kitchen garden and took deep lungfuls of the rain-drenched air. At that very moment he felt more awake than he had done for years. Invincible, or what? His senses were sharpened too. D’you know, he could almost swear he’d just heard the cappuccino muffins say, Just one more, Titus. It would, he reminded himself, require no more from him than a few mouthfuls. God. There it was again…. Pick me up—go on, you know it makes sense…. What else could he do? Titus opened the cake tin once more and obeyed. God, it tasted so good. Actually, that one tasted even better than the one before. He needed another for the purposes of comparison….
A fat raindrop plopped onto the perfect iced top of the last one in the tin, denting its icing beyond repair. Titus felt a pang of sympathy for the poor, solitary, damaged little muffin. Nobly, he did the right thing and put it out of its misery; then, with deep reluctance, he replaced the lid on the cake tin before heading out into the rain.
S’tan’s first aim when Pandora bit Him was to turn her into a little smoldering pile of carbon. However, somewhat worryingly, He’d discovered He couldn’t maintain the freeze on Time and summon the firepower to punish the girl plus cope with the unbelievable agony that had erupted in His fingers when Pandora spat them back out. He’d roared with pain, crashing backward against the china cupboard and venting His rage on its contents. When the red mist finally cleared from His sight, the girl had vanished, He appeared to have destroyed the kitchen, and He found blood running down His arm. Blood? Yes. She’d bloodied Him, the wretch. He could barely focus through His tears, in the throes of the kind of pain that He far preferred to dish out than to receive. Halfway across the great hall, as He ran to find a bathroom where He could lick His wounds in private without anyone seeing that He—He—was crying like a big wuss, He realized that He’d only had to deal with this sort of pain once before, on the dreadful day when He was sent into exile….
“Whaddya mean, you’re downgrading me to breakfast chef? I’m every bit as good a cook as you, pal, and you know it.”
The Chef had smiled kindly, parrying S’tan’s words with a balloon whisk, radiating embarrassment tempered with determination.
“S’tan, S’tan, my dear colleague…” He wrapped a consoling arm around S’tan’s shoulders and continued, all the while steering S’tan in the direction of Heaven’s back door, which led directly out to the Dumpsters and Heaven’s Exit. “Heyyy, we don’t need to fall out over this, huh? It’s simple. There can only be one Chef, and I’m It. You’re good—you may even become great, given time—but your dodgy methods, your even dodgier ingredients, the way your tea towels stink and your pans don’t shine…tchhh. You know that only one of us is perfect. And…” He paused, then added, “That’s Me.”
They’d reached the back door, and the Chef was handing Him His papers. S’tan still couldn’t believe this was happening.
“You’re firing me?” He gasped.
“Oh, S’tan. Don’t be so melodramatic. Think of it as a gentle roasting.” The Chef twinkled. “They’ve got a vacancy in Hades, by the way.”
The rival establishment. Grim, smoky Hades. Known far and wide as “The Pits.”
Barbecues as far as the eye could see. Sizzling fat. Slabs of lard stacked a mile deep. Rack upon rack of burned meat. Could this really be happening to Him? S’tan stifled
a sob. He was ruined. This was The End. Now He’d never get to run Heaven. Oh God, He was about to say—but He stopped Himself in time. Catching a glimpse of the Chef’s shiny, happy face, S’tan felt a burning stab of flame in His belly, and it sure as heck didn’t feel like indigestion. Right, then. If that’s the way the Chef wanted to play it…Without another word, He spun on his hoof and stalked out of Heaven’s kitchen, refusing to take the staff staircase down to the alley, but heading for the elevators instead. Right, He fumed, I’ll show you, Chef. I’ll prove who’s the top dog round here. I’ll…
In His rage, He was so consumed by thoughts of revenge that He failed to notice the little OUT OF ORDER sign hanging on the open door of the Heavenly lift. Sadly, the kitchens were located on Heaven’s top floor, so as S’tan fell and fell and fell, He had plenty of time to reflect on how much further He still had to go before He hit the bottom. Over countless millennia, the pain from His injuries slowly faded, but the real pain caused by His fall from grace had ached for all Eternity, ached and burned like a never-ending flame, never quenched, never…
“Never mind, dear,” Mrs. McLachlan said, holding out a clean white hand towel, on which was laid a tube of antiseptic cream, three hypoallergenic bandages, and, if He wasn’t imagining it, two Tylenol tablets. S’tan gazed at this offering in astonishment, stunned by the woman’s kindness while simultaneously marveling at her stupidity. Didn’t she know who she was dealing with? Offering the Devil some painkillers? It was such an insane gesture that, for a moment, He was quite nonplussed, and He stood there with His mouth open, blinking at her.
That was exactly the opportunity she’d been hoping for. As she felt His will falter, Mrs. McLachlan removed a fat white cone-shaped bag from the folds of her hand towel and, quick as a flash, she jammed the narrow end of the cone deep into S’tan’s gaping mouth, almost down His throat, as with all her might she squeezed the bag dry. S’tan’s eyes bulged as he realized that He’d just been force-fed. He was on the point of retaliating when whatever had been in the bag hit Him.
“What the HEh-h-h-h-h—?” he squawked, bending double over the sink and spraying it with a pink jellylike mist. By the time he managed to raise his head, Mrs. McLachlan had disappeared, but by then S’tan was too weak to do much more than hang on to the rim of the sink and groan fitfully. Tell me that isn’t my insides on the outside, he beseeched his reflection in the mirror over the sink. His reflection stared back, an expression of utter horror appearing on it as he realized that for the first time since he’d arrived at StregaSchloss, he actually had a reflection. He looked down again into the sink, wondering what on earth had been in that bag. Tentatively, he reached out a finger and sampled the pink jelly, reasoning that it couldn’t do him any more harm than it had done already. He brought his pink-smeared finger up to his mouth and unrolled his tongue to meet it. Hmmm. Not bad. Actually, pretty good. Yum. It—whatever it was—tasted both sweet and sour. Actually, whatever it was tasted pretty damn good. He could see its flavor working very well with cold roast ham, or with game…venison or wild boar…. Whaaaat? What the Hades did he think he was doing, thinking of food at a time like this?
S’tan slapped himself on the forehead. Gripping the edge of the sink for support, he looked up. Yes. That was him there, ugly as sin itself, but still reflected in the mirror, just like any old normal immortal. This was all so wrong. He was S’tan, Viscount of Vileness, Emperor of Evil, Prince of…Prince of…He caught his breath. He couldn’t even remember what he’d been Prince of, for Heaven’s sake. What was that stuff in the bag? Whatever it was, it was pretty powerful medicine. And that woman had administered it to him; she’d done it. She’d done it and he’d lost it. He just knew he’d lost his edge forever. He was doomed. He’d be the laughingstock of Hades. S’tan, onetime First Minister…When they stopped laughing in his face, they’d probably give him the job of manually clearing the sewage vats…or raking out the ashes from the Pit…or…
Or perhaps he could just stay here? Earth wasn’t so different from Hades. Both places had a great deal in common: corrupt governments, terrible food, awful traffic…except here on Earth he could still command some respect, even if only for his skills with a gas-fired grill…. However, he was lacking only one thing before he achieved culinary dominion. He licked his lips and smiled. What he needed was a recipe for whatever the heck had been in that bag. Forget the Chronostone; with that recipe on board, he’d be unstoppable.
When Bad Stuff Happens to Good People
Sheltering from the rain beneath the chestnut tree, the remains of the Strega-Borgia family took stock of the situation. Over their heads, dangling from the bare branches, the bats of Coire Crone looked almost as miserable as the humans they’d sworn to protect. Tendrils of mist rolled up from Lochnagargoyle, and huge droplets of rainwater plopped down from the tree onto the figures below. In her father’s arms, Damp grizzled continuously, and a coughing fit racked Strega-Nonna’s frail body. Tucked inside Titus’s shirt, the defrosted clones tutted to themselves, bemoaning the weather, the outside temperature, their current lodgings, and the increasingly unlikely prospect of ever being allowed to return to their lovely deep freeze.
“My lovely deep freeze,” Strega-Nonna gasped, in between bouts of coughing that sounded as if she’d exchanged her lungs for two treacle-filled accordions. Unable to avoid listening to these ghastly squeaks and bubbles, Pandora shuddered. Poor Nonna. Poor us, too. This was dreadful. If they didn’t do something soon, they were all going to die of exposure. Night had fallen, and in the headlong rush to escape from the house, none of them had thought to bring coats or jackets to keep out the winter chill. Pandora rolled her eyes. Now they just seemed to be standing there, waiting to be either rescued or picked off, one by one. As far as Pandora knew, Ludo was still guarding Baci in the Ancestors’ Room, but of Latch, Minty, and Mrs. McLachlan there was no sign. They had to be in the house still, she reasoned; otherwise…otherwise. Pandora groaned. She was too cold to think straight; Damp was making things a million times worse by whining like that; and, to put the lid on it, Dad had the thousand-mile stare of a sleepwalker, gazing into the mist as if he alone could see something materializing out of the rain.
After what seemed like a lifetime of listening to Damp and waiting for whatever they were waiting for, Luciano broke the silence.
“Take care of Damp while I go and find out what’s happening back at the house. I’m not entirely convinced that your mother is safe, even with Ludo, and Flora’s taking a very long time….” His voice tailed off. Stricken with uncertainty, he removed his sweater and tenderly wrapped it round Strega-Nonna’s shoulders, blew them all a kiss, and vanished into the mist, leaving his family to be guarded by StregaSchloss’s low-tech security system, which on that particular evening consisted of only two mythical beasts, neither of them remotely interested in guard duty.
Pandora groaned again. She really didn’t want to listen to what, had the beasts been married, would be rapidly escalating into a loud, no-holds-barred prelude to divorce.
“You creep. You faithless, slimy, two-timing rat. You adulterous toad. You—”
“Aw noo, jist a minute, hen. Yer mammy’s no far away, an’ she’ll no wanty hear youse ca’ing me aw they names, eh no?”
“I don’t give a fat fig who hears me calling you a lying, sneaking, slippery, stinking, two-timing, faithless—”
“Youse said that before, yon time. Look, hen, could youse listen fir a wee minute, eh? And stoap it wi’ the burnin’ bogies—yous’re settin’ aw they trees on fire. Jis calm doon….”
But Ffup couldn’t calm down. One hour spent with her mother had been enough to set her blood pressure soaring. One hideous hour in which Mother Dragon had pointed out all daughter Ffup’s shortcomings in loving detail, including said daughter’s foolishness for falling out with her Sleeper.
“Just HOO many PREPOSTERALS of marriage d’you think you’re going to GET, m’girl?” the older dragon demanded, poking her daughter in the
chest with a nobbly talon. “That SLIPPER’S a fine young fellow of a man. You should count your BLISSINGS he’s willing to take YOU on. After all, you’re no OILY painting, plus you’re getting on a bit and…” Ffup’s mother fought dirty, and she paused before delivering the final assault: “You’ve put on WEIGHED since I last SEED you—even your SLIPPER agreed with me….”
At this, Ffup’s jaw dropped. What? Her mother and the Sleeper were having cozy little chats behind her back about how fat she was? This was the same Sleeper who was about to have his engagement ring returned with menaces due to his being romantically entangled with someone who wasn’t his faithful fiancée, Ffup the Fat. This final betrayal by her very own mother was more than flesh and blood could stand. Flames of rage nearly consuming her, Ffup shrieked in time-honored teenage fashion, “You just don’t UNDERSTAND him, Mum,” before storming off in floods of tears, intent on demonstrating just how well she understood her fiancé by shouting at him.
“And you can take your stupid engagement ring back, you fatheaded, renegade mutant WORM.”
Uh-oh, thought Pandora. This time Ffup’s gone too far. This time the Sleeper’s going to turn round and slip-slide back into Lochnagargoyle, and that will be the last we ever see of him. But to Pandora’s surprise, the Sleeper refused to rise to the bait.
“Wherr is your ring, onyways, hen?” he inquired mildly. “Ah hope youse haveny loast it again.”
“Lost the ring?” Ffup gave a theatrical snort to confirm just how ridiculous she considered this slur on her character. “I haven’t lost the ring. I simply choose not to wear it anymore. Seeing as how it was given to me under false pretenses.”
“Aye, hen. Youse might have a point therr. Ah never should’ve gi’en youse it.” The Sleeper undulated with embarrassment, his vast fleshy coils slapping repeatedly onto the rain-soaked grass of the meadow and splashing him and his fiancée with chilly water, which did little to improve Ffup’s temper.
