The copse had come alive, swaying against the mottled grey skyline as its branches writhed and crawled, weaving stem and branch and stalk together, knitting itself into a tight net about the property. Above the howling, Bram could hear a crackling - not just the branches breaking and snapping, more like static electricity building.
Bram pressed his hands over his ears, barely muffling the deafening noise that roared in his head. He stumbled down the steps toward Burban, Spix at his heels. The raucous noise had no effect on Nettle, still sitting motionless.
Bram shouted as loudly as he could, “WHAT’S GOING ON?!!”
Burban and his fellow companions instantly stopped howling. The silence came so abruptly it was disorientating. Bram gingerly splayed his fingers apart and took a look about him. Spix had loaded his sling while the other spriggans gathered behind him, equally nervous. Through the shadowy mist behind him he could see the blurred outline of Egnatius leaning on his walking stick by the front door.
Burban went to speak, but his voice croaked. He HA-hmmm-AHmeeed a couple of times to clear his throat. When he finally spoke, his voice was husky from sounding the alarm. “There’s a stranger out yonder… he wants in.” And he HA-hmmmed a little further.
Bram’s heart gave a buoyant lurch, the colour of his eyes lit to a bright kingfisher-blue. For a brief moment he’d hoped it was Jazz, he’d even take Claudine right now, until he took in what Burban had said - he, not her... and a stranger?
“Who is it?” It was Quary who asked, his one good eye narrowed suspiciously. With the tip of his thumb he was rubbing the hilt of his sword, still sheathed in its scabbard, hooked through his belt.
Krinsky called out to Bram, “Says he followed yer sister all the way from Olde Town.”
Burban gave a gruff, annoyed sound at his companion’s interruption. He gave Bram a jerk of a nod. “He’s demanding to talk to her.” His wide lips pinched tight as he muttered, “Right rude little plonker an’ all.”
Bram shared a look of surprise with Spix. Followed or stalked? Friend or foe? Whoever this guy is, has he anything to do with the state Nettle’s in? Does he know what’s happened to Jazz? He pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose and drew himself as tall as his short frame allowed. “I want to speak with him.”
Burban’s great big eyes fell half-mast. “You sure, lad?”
Bram wasn’t sure, but what else was there to do. He nodded. “He may know what happened to Nettle.” Whoever he was, he’d followed Nettle back to the cottage intent on speaking with her. Surely he knew what had befallen his sister.
Burban made a gesture as though he agreed, though somewhat reluctantly, and Bram briefly worried that he was going to resist his instructions. But a moment later he heard the rustling of leaves and branches straining against one another as Burban unravelled a few branches, easing apart the netting effect to create a small peep hole for him to peer through.
Spix, like the others, hung back, nervous of the rosewood copse. Bram stepped closer to peer through the gap. He saw a boy with a shock of silvery blond hair standing in the middle of the driveway, his hands shoved in the pockets of his midnight-blue jacket, a scarf wrapped about his neck. He looked about the same age as Jazz, but there was an air of confidence about him that belied the appearance of his age. “Who are you?” Bram called out.
The boy searched for where the voice came from and found the peep-hole in the copse. “Hello there.”
Bram cautiously stared - was he just a harmless boy or was there something more to him? “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“The name’s Jack,” he replied, and began to approach the copse with long lazy strides. “I’ve come to speak with the girl with the black hair.”
Bram projected his voice, hoping it sounded older and authoritative. “Nettle’s my sister. What do you want with her?”
The boy’s eyebrows arched shrewdly. “I’m assuming she’s not in a particularly healthy state of mind, since you’re the one asking questions and she’s not.”
“Why do you suppose that?” Bram said, frowning.
Jack started to look annoyed. “She’s always struck me as the type of girl that’s always in the thick of things, meddling about with things that have nothing to do with her. Far too inquisitive for her own good. Acting without regard to her own safety. She’s got a sharp tongue on her. Bossy, some might say, and let’s not forget impertinent,” he was about to add more, when he stopped himself with a short shake of the head. He rolled his shoulders as if releasing some pent up tension, and blew out a long breath. “I’d imagine, if she were able, she’d be here demanding answers from me instead of you,” he finished, a little more quietly.
He was kind-of right, even if perhaps his description of Nettle was a bit harsh. At the very least, it made Bram feel a bit better to know that this Jack had actually met his sister. Bram glanced back at the cottage - Nettle sat where he’d left her, she hadn’t moved an inch. He wasn’t sure how much he should give away, but not saying anything wasn’t going to help his sister. His mouth down-turned. “She’s practically comatose.”
Jack had reached the copse and stood only a meter away. He bent his knees and leaned to one side so he could get a better view of Bram. “I rather expected as much,” he said, meeting Bram’s gaze with interest.
Bram could see his black leather boots were tied with bright gold laces. Mud clung to their soles and had splattered up the back of his jeans, as if he’d run all the way here. He was tall with a lean physique, and there was something very striking about his features, an odd mixture between the open frankness of a sun-bleached surfer, and the smooth aloofness of a Greek sculpture.
“Her younger brother, I’m assuming,” Jack guessed. “Though there’s little resemblance between the two of you.”
Bram ignored him. “What happened to her?”
Jack smiled, straightening. His voice took on a silky suggestive tone, and he turned a hand over to inspect his fingernails with a distracted air. “Why don’t you let me in. While I help your sister recover I can answer all your questions then.”
“NO!!!” Burban boomed, startling Bram and the spriggans. A few sparrows, newly roosted, took flight with fright. He’d swivelled around to glare at Jack, his expression ugly. The stems sprouting from his head had twisted about in a tight knot.
“No?” Jack looked slightly amused. “And might I enquire as to why you’re declining me?”
Burban’s voice rumbled out across the clearing. “BECAUSE YOU’RE A GOBLIN IS WOT!” All down around the cottage were Burban’s companions echoing the same sentiment – GOBLIN… GOBLIN… GOBLIN BEWARE!
Bram recoiled, completely taken by surprise. “Huh?” All he’d ever had as a reference to goblins were pictures of horrible creatures with sharp teeth and leathery skin with a penchant for stealing babies. He gave Spix a bewildered look. “But he looks far too pretty… Aren’t goblins hideous and hunch-backed with slimy green skin?”
The boy - or goblin, as Burban would have him believe - overheard. He shot a highly offended glare and Bram noticed his violet eyes. “No, we’re not. Hideous indeed - such ignorance.” For a moment Bram felt a crushing sort of dreadfulness for his impertinence, until the corner of the boys mouth twitched and a mischievous glint entered his eyes. “Although you might be right about the Ferralese side of the family.” He pushed a sleeve up and inspected his arm with an amused look. “I suppose if you catch the light right, there might be a bit of a faint hint of green …”
“Here, here, let me see...” Egnatius had hobbled up, blatantly shoving Quary aside with his walking stick, and drew in a breath to enlarge himself so he was able to see through the peephole. He took a puff on his pipe, the smoke curling from his mouth as he asked, “What’s yer full name, young sir?”
Quary, not one to be pushed aside blew himself up too, nudging past Bram and crowding Egnatius at the peep hole to scowl at Jack. “Answer, goblin! What’s yer name?! All of it!” His rooster lost inte
rest in scratching for bugs to waddle up and see what his Captain was blustering about this time.
Egnatius cuffed Quary around the head, inciting a yelp from him. “Don’t go riling him up, you dunderhead. He’s a goblin and he’ll blow you to pieces if he has a mind to!”
“He can’t touch me behind here,” Quary grouched, rubbing his smarting head.
Jack smiled sweetly. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”
Quary’s one good eye flared and Bram heard his sharp gasp of surprise. The spriggan hastily retreated, shrinking back down to size. “I meant no disrespect, young sir,” he called out in a wan voice.
Sandee shook her head at him and said mockingly, “Ah Captain, so full of foolhardy boldness.” Quary’s blunt features scowled a little at that, but he didn’t protest, choosing to hide behind his rooster, who crowed in delight and went straight in for a peck. Quary squawked and beat his hat at the rooster, leaping behind his brother, who shared a mirthful look with Sandee.
Jack bowed gracefully low. “Jack Bedden-Trogg.”
Egnatius stroked his chin thoughtfully and whispered to Bram, “That name, it sounds familiar, but it’s been a long time, and I was so young when I was separated from the Wilds and the names me Ma and Da bade me to remember.” He turned back to Jack who was waiting patiently, and called out, “Yer name sounds familiar, lad, you related to anyone of note?”
Jack shook his head, his wild white hair ruffling a little with the movement. He flashed a dazzling smile. “I can assure you, I am no king or queen, nor likely ever to be.”
Spix tugged at Bram’s shirt. “Goblins aint to be trusted,” he warned. “That be one of the high laws of spriggans me Ma and Da first taught me.”
Quary’s battered hat poked above Roq’s shoulder as he chipped in, “That, and never accept anything from a pixie smoking a pipe.” And he gave a little shudder at a personal recollection of his.
Bram considered Jack. He certainly didn’t trust him; Egnatius and the others were warning him not to as well. But Jack may be the only person who knew what happened to Nettle in Olde Town, and he might be the only one able to help. “Let him in,” Bram ordered Burban. “We haven’t been able to rouse her, he might be able to.”
Burban said gruffly, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Goblins are slippery characters, and like your little friend said, not to be trusted.” Nevertheless, he parted a small entrance for the goblin.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Scorch-Marks on the Walls
Jack had to duck a little as he strode through the hole the copse had made for him. The spriggans kept a wary eye as he approached. Egnatius stood by Bram, flanked by Spix who’d already loaded his sling with a stone swinging it in a lazy arc. Quary was torn between guarding his precious Nutella and Bram. Bram just won out, just, but to hedge his bets he stayed close to the bulging suitcase.
Sandee blocked Jack from getting any closer to Bram, who had taken a few tiny steps backward. She levelled her sword at him. “Here, watch yerself goblin. Try any funny business and I’ll poke a hole in you.” Roq was right behind her hefting his axe, sporting a reckless grin of broken teeth, daring the goblin to just try it.
Though Jack wasn’t the least bit concerned by the spriggans, he was intensely curious at their presence. He readjusted his scarf and addressed Bram, casting his gaze leisurely about the property. “I had no idea when I met your sister she’d be this peculiar. A house in the Wilds, a copse, spriggans... Just who are you?”
Bram gestured urgently to where Nettle sat on the porch steps. “Please, my sister. I found her like this, maybe half an hour ago. Can you help her?”
Sandee allowed Jack to pass, but she and Roq kept close as he approached Nettle in long lazy strides. He knelt on the rickety step in front of her, slightly pushing up the sleeves of his jacket. The spriggans gathered behind him, even Quary’s rooster was watching the proceedings. Bram squatted down beside the goblin, hope swelling in his chest.
Nettle didn’t respond to Jack’s presence, she continued to gaze through him. His smooth brow creased, and he lightly grimaced as he ran a hand through his silvery-blond hair. “I’m not sure I can. She’s had a rather nasty shock.”
Bram whipped his head around to meet Jack’s apologetic expression. “What kind of shock?” Jazz was his first thought, his stomach lurching… is she dead?
Jack didn’t answer. Instead, he turned back to Nettle and slowly waved a hand in front of her face and waited for any kind of acknowledgment from her. He received none. He leaned back on his heels casting a contemplative glance at her. “There is one thing I can try.”
“Anything…” Bram whispered.
Jack drew his hand back, pinched the thumb and forefinger together, and a wicked grin sprung to his lips. “It’s a little primitive, but potentially effective.” He winked at Bram. With a snap of his fingers, he sharply flicked the tip of her nose.
It was like watching a crumpled marionette doll being tugged by its strings come to life. Nettle leapt to her feet, animated and excitable and yelled, “THE SISTERS’ ARE WITCHES!!!”
Bram’s heart near-exploded with elation. She’s OK! He flung himself at his sister, wrapping his arms around her waist. Thank goodness she’s OK! He beamed up at her, a crooked questioning smile that faltered when he registered what she’d actually said. “Huh? What are you talking about? Who are witches?”
Nettle gazed down at him. The colour of her eyes had shifted to a dark swampy green - they were almost black. Her features were deeply carved with guilt and sorrow and her mouth downcast. “Oh, Bram,” she cried. She crumpled to her knees so she was at eye-level with him.
Bram’s stomach felt hollow. He let her take his hands to lace her fingers with his. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“They’re witches, Bram - the Balfreys.”
His eyebrows drew together in consternation and he recoiled a little, giving a short snort of disbelief. “What do you mean?” This was the last thing he had expected her to say.
Her sad expression didn’t waver, it intensified.
“What?” He asked again, his body growing tense.
There was a fierce tightness around her eyes and mouth, and she let loose a heartbreaking sob, letting go of one hand to press it against her mouth, her chin wobbling. “Th-They have Jazz… I’m so sorry Bram… I couldn’t get to her. She’s in danger and I left her behind.” She threw herself into him, rocking his balance, burying her face into the crook of his neck. He felt her shuddering. “They have Jazz…” It was a moment later before he realized she was crying. His big brave older sister, who never cried. The tears fell unheeded, soaking the collar of his shirt. “It’s wo-worse, much worse, Bram… They’ve g-got D-Da-Dad too.”
Bram pulled back. The air sucked out of him, and he felt like he was teetering on the edge of a cliff. “Dad? What do you mean?”
“Cl-Cl-Claudine…” She choked back a sob, her mouth a rubbery mess of wretchedness. “Th-they’re g-go-going to s-s-sa-sacrifice him...”
Behind him, Bram heard a collective murmuring from the copse and spriggans. He watched her draw in a shuddering breath as she rose to briskly pace the porch, her shoulders hunched forward. “I saw something the night Dad left with the Woodstock Twins,” she sniffled wiping her salty cheeks with a palm. “It lo-looked like a rash on his wrist, b-but I’m sure it was the number 13.” She shook her head. Her messy hair, a tangle of locks, swept about her like a curtain. “Besides Dad, there’s at least another twelve other sacrifices.”
“What’s she going on about?” Jazz curtly asked Bram. She’d approached without being noticed and was standing just to the side of him, wearing running-gear. Her face was blotchy and slick with sweat and she was bending down to wipe her brow with the edge of her sweat-stained tee-shirt.
Bram could only stare in amazement at his cousin, while his sister swivelled around, flabbergasted. “Ja-Jazz?” Elation shone from Nettle’s puffy red-rimmed eyes. Her lips widened into a gigantic smile. �
��JAZZ!”
Jazz snappily straightened to look at Nettle as if she’d finally lost her mind and she could now freely declare to Bram – I told you so. She took a nervous step backward, shooting Bram a worried glance. “Yeeeahhh?”
“What are you doing here?!” Nettle grabbed hold of her cousin in a bear-hug, and burst into a fresh shower of tears. “I th-thought we’d lo-lo-lost you!”
Jazz went as stiff as a board. “I went for a run, like I do most mornings.” She extricated herself from Nettle’s grip and took a few steps back to create some distance from her cousin who was inanely gazing at her as if she was her long-lost best friend. Jazz popped a shoulder and gave Bram an and-you-think-I’m-bonkers? look. “Er,” she said while wiping Nettle’s tears from her shirt, “so why would you think you’d lost me?”
Bram answered, “Pippa told Nettle that you were in danger.”
Jazz let out a pfft at that absurd notion, then asked, “Pippa who?”
“Never mind,” Bram ground out, rolling his eyes heavenward, wondering how his cousin could be so completely self-absorbed she noticed no one else aside from herself. “Besides that, we got a message this morning telling us to leave - immediately.” One of Jazz’s eyebrows rose, but she didn’t say anything, waiting to hear more. “When we couldn’t find you this morning, Nettle went to Olde Town to find you. We thought you were at the tea house.”
Jazz shrugged, her expression unconcerned. “So?”
“Dad’s been taken-”
“Hold up,” Jazz interrupted, holding her hand before her like a stop-sign. “Uncle Fred’s been taken?”
Bram nodded emphatically, his golden head bobbing up and down.
“What do you mean?” Jazz looked from Bram to Nettle, her lips twisting with disbelief. “Like, kidnapped? Who on earth would want to take Uncle Fred?” She scoffed.
“The Balfreys,” Nettle said quietly. She was wiping her tear-stained cheeks dry. “They’re witches.”
Jazz pulled a face as if Nettle had just said the most ridiculous thing ever. But when she saw both her cousins wore such serious expressions, her disbelief began to crumble. “Like real witches - hocus pocus witches? Or, you know, the other kind, the word that starts with B and sounds a lot like witches?”
Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters Page 35
