Claudine clapped her hands and a puff of tawny dust exploded before her as she said something, her voice too low to make out. A paint-chipped stool scooted across the room, its legs making a screechy-scraping noise on the wooden floor like fingernails down a chalkboard, to rest directly in front of Nettle. The tiny sliver of doubt that the sisters were witches was swiftly vanquished. If Nettle hadn’t already held the empty expression on her features with determined self-preservation, she might have given herself away.
Claudine sat on the stool and smoothed her taffeta skirt down with fingernails that were encrusted with dark dust. The creases in her fingers and hands were also embedded with the remnants of powders. “Why did you come to find me?”
Careful, Nettle warned herself. It was imperative that she chose her words cautiously and act as the sisters expected her to. The fewer words, the closer to the truth, the better. Her mouth was dry and her voice sounded feeble.
“Dad’s not come back.”
Claudine’s piercing blue eyes glittered as they bore through her. They were frightening in their emptiness of compassion. “I know.”
I knew something was off the last time we spoke up in her bedroom! She hadn’t been surprised at all that Dad hadn’t returned. She has him. She said they’d needed a thirteenth sacrifice and they’d found one in Dad. He has to be at Madam Bawdsworth’s, along with the others! She didn’t know if she should say anything further, but by the expectant look on Claudine’s face, she figured she ought to. “He told us to go to our Aunts if he wasn’t back when he said he would be.”
Claudine glanced briefly away and gave a bored sigh. “Yes, you’ve said that before.”
Had she? Yes, up in Claudine’s bedroom yesterday. “But we don’t want to go, not without Dad. I came to ask what you might advise us to do. Leave or stay?” She knew it was best not to mention Willoughby and the disturbing message he’d carried.
Claudine patted her hand, it felt dry and coarse like sandpaper. “Of course you should have. I’m glad you came.” She came close, and Nettle could smell a dank odour about her like cooked meat left in the fridge too long. For a fearful moment she thought she’d been tumbled. But as Claudine brought her hand up, she was holding a small pair of scissors and with a deft snip she cut a lock of Nettle’s black hair. She held the dull lock before her, eyeing it with a dreary kind of interest. “You’ll stay, of course. You and your pretty cousin.”
Suddenly the ground began to shudder. The stools they both sat on jostled and shifted with the motion. Earthquake, Nettle almost shrieked. She caught herself in time. Thankfully, Claudine had given Margot a knowing sideways look. The sisters seemed untroubled by the quake. The kitchen was alive with the disharmonious sound of clanking and chinking as cutlery and utensils and pots and pans and canisters wobbled or swung against one another. There was a tremendous jolt, then another, and then the trembling diminished until it was no more.
For a lengthy moment there was silence in the kitchen while everyone waited to see if the quake was over or would start up again.
Claudine broke the silence, and the staff bustled back to business. “Gradlow has almost broken through to the Heart,” she informed her sisters as Margot came over to collect the lock of hair. Margot took the lock over to the bench where she’d been gathering a new set of canisters and jars and vials. Claudine leisurely rose from her stool and joined her sisters at the bench. Their attention elsewhere, Nettle chanced a glance at Jack. His violet eyes flew wide to see that she wasn’t under their enchantment at all. Very slowly, as not to attract attention, he shook his head at her, warning her to be careful.
Margot snipped at the lock, trimming it into tiny pieces that drifted down into a heavy mortar. She then placed what remained of the lock in a small vial and put it in her pocket. Claudine added ingredients – things that squelched or snapped like breaking bones or crunched – as Margot pounded the hair, grinding and scraping the mortar until the mixture became a fine dust. Claudine threw a handful of this mixture into a candle burning on the bench beside her, and as she did so, she spoke one word, in a language Nettle had never heard before. It sounded guttural and clunky and made her skin crawl.
As soon as the powder encountered the naked flame, the dust caught fire, and like a sparkler - bloomed, crackling and spitting into an iridescent star until it burnt away into a puff of purple smoke. A metallic smell permeated the air.
The sisters then turned as one to look expectantly at Nettle, like vultures gathered around carrion. Nettle felt a burning sensation on her inner arm. She didn’t know whether she should react, so she chose not to.
Claudine approached, her antique shoes clacking across the small space separating them. She smiled that smile that Nettle had seen every time they’d met, but this time she saw through it. It wasn’t real. There was no friendship behind the smile, just a predator. The flat eyes of an animal watching its prey. She sat down and took Nettle’s arm, turning it over. There was a strange symbol on her inner arm, much like an infinity symbol with three lines slashing through it. “Now then,” Claudine said to her sisters. “She’s bound to us and will not stray. Until we can hand her over to Cretta tonight, she will remain here. In the meantime, go and make yourselves useful. We need as much life-essence as we can purge, and you,” she said with a warning finger to Dolcie. “We need that dagger, and we needed it yesterday. Get in there and make those Tears happen, use any method you deem necessary. We are running out of time.”
Dolcie squared her shoulders, thumping her wooden spoon in her palm like a prize-fighter making his opponent a promise. She stalked through the red door, and as the door opened, screaming and whimpering could be heard from within. Every nerve in Nettle’s body writhed at the sound.
JAZZ!! Jazz is in there - she has to be in there! What were they doing to her? Dolcie had come out with a bucket of blood. What did Claudine say? Jazz wasn’t necessary, they could use anyone else. No, she thought, trying to keep logical, they wouldn’t harm her, they wouldn’t kill her, they needed her... But they could still hurt her, her mind rebelled, maybe Jazz being whole isn’t particularly necessary.
Claudine addressed Margot. “It’s time to meet with our Lady. Inform her Cretta will be delivering an intriguing gift from us.”
Margot inclined her coppery head. Her lips twitched as she glanced smugly at Nettle on the way past. She swept from the kitchen, the black swing-doors banging behind her.
Nettle stole a nervous look. She anxiously glanced around, wondering how she could get to Jazz. What could she use? A knife? The kitchen was full of them, but she had never used a knife to defend – or attack - ever.
Claudine turned back to her. Panicked, Nettle froze. The woman was shrewdly looking at her, and then something caught her attention. “What is this?” Claudine lifted Nettle’s limp wrist, absorbed by the bracelet. The bracelet looked worn, the bands about to disintegrate at any moment.
Abruptly Claudine let Nettle’s wrist go and clapped her hands together right in front of Nettle’s face. Nettle couldn’t help herself - she flinched. And Claudine was expecting it.
Claudine leaned forward, her eyes gleaming, to whisper, “Got you.”
CHAPTER FORTY
The Red Door
Nettle shrieked, the noise warbling in her throat. She leapt up, the stool tipped over, clattering behind her. She threw herself against Claudine and knocked the woman from her seat.
Claudine landed on her back with an oomph, completely taken by surprise. She scrambled on the ground, her voluminous dress a hindrance.
Nettle skittered away to the furthest corner of the kitchen, her back hitting the wall. Her whole body was shaking, nerves electrified and heart pumping like a piston. “You’re a witch!” She knew she sounded dim, but it was the only thing that kept coming out of her mouth and she couldn’t stop herself. “A witch! You’re a witch!”
“Of course I am, you stupid girl.” Claudine rose, her features twisting cruelly. “Come here, now.”
Nettle felt her arm burning. The symbol. Its black lines shimmered and writhed and she felt an urge, a need, to do as Claudine bade. “NO!” she yelled. She rubbed at the symbol, futilely wishing that she could erase it.
Claudine looked at her darkly. She had obviously been expecting her to comply without hesitation. “Come to me, right this MINUTE!”
Nettle shook her head, her hair whipping about with the movement. Her hand scratched frantically at her arm. The pull to do as Claudine commanded seemed to fade. Claudine’s ruthless expression seemed to falter, shifting to bewilderment. She pointed a ragged finger. “What... What are you doing? How are you doing that?”
Nettle didn’t know what she was referring to. She followed Claudine’s gaze and saw that her fingernails were black. She’d scratched the rune from her arm, its black lines flaking away like paint.
Claudine screeched, more panicked than angry. “Sink! Get her! GET HER NOW!!”
The sous-chef lumbered toward Nettle.
Nettle didn’t know what to do, or how to defend herself. Her gaze searched wildly about the kitchen for something, anything, to help her fight her way to Jazz. There! She’d spotted a meat mallet, crusted with blood and gunk, sitting on the table near the red door. She waited for Sink to come closer, luring him away from the back of the kitchen, then bolted around an island bench to snatch up the mallet. It felt heavy in her hand. Nettle’s heart was racing, her breath short and sharp and deafening in her head as she ran toward the red door. The children scrambled out of her way, clustering in a corner, making pitiful mewling sounds.
Something churned through the air like a jet-plane plume. The grey vapour struck the door just before Nettle reached it. She jerked her hand away, her feet skidding on the wooden floor to right herself. The gas engulfed the red door in a hazy cloud and to Nettle, it seemed as if the door undulated like the surface of a lake. A moment later, as the smoke dissipated, the door became solid again. Nettle reached for the handle. It was locked. She shook it and jostled it and rattled it. She banged a fist on the door, crying, “JAZZ!! JAZZ!!”
Behind her she could hear Sink’s ponderous footfalls. She didn’t have much time. Terrified, she brought the mallet down on the door handle hoping to bust the lock. The impact was jarring and sent a shock of pain down her arm. She lost grip on the mallet, it slipped from her fingers. As she bent to pick it up again, she narrowly missed being grabbed by Sink. She buckled her knees to fall to the ground and rolled, sweeping the mallet up as she did. She came to a half-kneel and swung the mallet at the enormous man, catching him at the kneecap. He let loose a bellow of outrage and pain, crumbling to his knees. He lashed out, his meaty fingers grabbed the mallet and her with it, dragging her close. His black eyes were pinpricks and his mouth opened, revealing his shark-like teeth. Nettle screamed. She let go of the mallet and frantically scrambled backward fetching up against the red door. She felt the door vibrate as someone thumped against the other side. Dolcie’s voice, muffled by the door, cried, “What’s going on? Let me out!”
Sink was slowly clambering to his feet, Claudine was circling from the other side. Nettle didn’t know what to do. She was trapped. “Stay away from me!”
Jack had stopped washing dishes, soap suds dripped from his forearms as he stared in astonishment. She met his gaze with a pleading look – help!
Claudine had come to a standstill. Her right foot was tapping rapidly on the ground and Nettle could see something sparkling and crackling at the heel of the silver buckled shoe. “Let Jazz go,” Nettle said. A burst of annoyance bloomed through her at how horribly feeble her voice had sounded, like a plea, rather than a demand.
“Jazz isn’t in there,” Claudine said.
At that, Nettle felt a small amount of relief. Her gaze flicking toward the kitchen door. Jazz must be upstairs. She had to find a way to get to her. But there wasn’t only Jazz to save, they had her father too. Her gaze returned to Claudine and she gave the woman a mean glare. “Where’s my Dad?”
Claudine took a tiny step closer. “Somewhere safe.”
That wasn’t reassuring. “Safe for how long? What do you want with him? You said he was a sacrif-” Her voice caught. “A sacrifice. You’re going to kill him.”
Claudine smiled, as if sharing a private confidence with a girlfriend. “Your father’s rather special. But you know that already.” She took another tiny step, her fingers lazily trailing across a tabletop. The tips of her fingers came back stained with blood. She rubbed them together idly. “His heart is full of pure love for your mother. He’s devoted to her.” Her eyebrows drew together unhappily. “And you wanted someone to replace her in his heart.” She shook her head at Nettle, tut-tutting. “And that would never do. You’re too foolish to even realize it would never happen, could never happen. You can’t extinguish that kind of love. You can’t replace it.”
There, Nettle cried to herself, latching on to hope, that’s what they want! “If a heart is what you want, take mine.”
Claudine turned to Nettle with a chilling smile and blue eyes blazing with wickedness. Her eyes were mesmerizing. They’d shifted from a bright sparkling sapphire to a deep ocean blue with flecks of gold wavering around her expanding pupils like firelight reflected in a pane of glass. Nettle couldn’t tear her gaze from Claudine’s. The room began to darken as her head grew muzzy, her thoughts as sluggish as her limbs, until it seemed there was only her and Claudine left in the darkness.
Claudine approached, cocking her head to the side. “What did you say, little chit?”
Her tongue felt thick and sluggish. “Take me instead.”
Claudine had come so close, there was only an arm’s distance between them. Nettle couldn’t will herself to move, she’d lost all command over her limbs. She felt an immense pressure against her body. It was getting hard to even breath. What is she doing to me?
Claudine looked genuinely impressed. “Would you take his place at All Hallows’ Eve? You’d willingly give yourself so that your father would live?”
“Y-Yes.” It was hard to move her lips to even say that.
Claudine leaned down and pressed her head against Nettle’s chest, listening to the skittering beat of her heart, the breathless way she inhaled. “Your heart is not like your fathers, so pure and full of devoted love.” She straightened to look directly at Nettle, her mouth tugging with amusement. “I’m afraid you won’t do at all. No, not with the way your heart is splintered with loathing and despair for your mother.” She turned dismissively to walk a few steps away. “Your father is unique. Like the twelve others we have acquired, he has an all-consuming love and he will do anything for it. Even sacrifice himself.”
“You’re wrong...” Nettle insisted, clinging desperately to the hope that her father could save himself. As her vision began to waver, the oxygen thinning so there was nothing left in her lungs, the hope leeched from her. She wasn’t going to be able to save her father or even herself from the Balfreys; she was about to die.
Something made a noise as it rattled across the floor beneath the low table and reached her feet. A rolling pin, dusted with flour.
She’d forgotten all about Jack.
“Take it!” He cried.
Claudine spun toward him and shrieked in outrage. “YOU!! You meddling little brat!”
With the arrival of the rolling pin, Nettle felt a sudden surge of adrenalin, snapping the pressure that had been constricting her body, like chains breaking in two, destroying the spell that Claudine had woven about her. She took a welcome breath, gasping like a diver breaking the surface. She sank to the ground to grab the rolling pin.
Sink saw what she was up to before Claudine, and lunged. She slammed the pin at the colossal creature, catching him on the same knee she’d hit earlier. As he went down, she hit him again on the side of the head. He keeled over, stunned, uttering a sad cry as he hit the ground.
Claudine had spun away from Jack, her haggard features gouged with outrage. She dug into her pocket for a small bl
ue vial and flung it.
Nettle ran around Sink. She had made it half way across the kitchen when the vial hit her shoulder and for a brief moment she felt elated that nothing insidious had happened. But then the vial bounced from her, fell to the ground and smashed.
The blue liquid splattered at her right boot and ignited into a fireball. It caught the material of her leggings. The flames ripped up her leg, spreading across her waist like it was a living thing.
Nettle screamed in horror, trying to bat out the flames, but they spread until she was engulfed in a fireball of bright blue heat. She threw herself to the ground, rolling back and forth, remembering the lessons her father had taught her - stop, drop and roll. But nothing was working. She couldn’t extinguish the flames. Every nerve in her body painfully burnt as the first wave of flames seared her flesh.
Utter terror took hold of her. She stopped rolling to writhe and shriek and wail. Her skin began to bubble and blister, crackling as it burned, fissures erupting across her charring flesh.
The stench was overpowering, the agony unbearable and she fell mercifully into blackness.
The flames died away.
She didn’t know how much time had passed when she came to. Light breached her closed eyelids, turning everything a warm red. She became aware of how bone-cold she felt. Like a blanket of snow had fallen over her where she lay. But she knew that was impossible, and wondered if it was just her mind protecting her from the pain. She prised open her eyes, softly whimpering, terrified of what she might find.
Nettle gingerly flexed a hand, expecting to see the skin burned clean off, leaving only white bone behind. But her fingers were all there, unscorched. At first, she couldn’t quite comprehend. It’s impossible…
She was utterly and entirely unscathed.
Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters Page 33
