The Ondine Collection

by Ebony McKenna

  “That went about as well as could be expected,” Shambles said.

  Now they were higher up, they had a better view of the rioters. More people climbed the tree to get closer to Ondine. Someone else shimmied up a nearby flagpole.

  Claws digging into Ondine’s shoulder, Shambles yelled, “Run!”

  Clang, clang, her feet crashed over the metal awnings as Ondine ran away. Then she came to a halt. The next awning was made of canvas, with huge mould and moss patches. No way would it take her weight. Clang, clang, someone else’s feet closed in on them. Holding on to whatever parts of the wall she could, Ondine shuffled and hauled herself along, using window sills as footholds and –

  Riiiip!

  The person following had tried running across the awning, only to tear straight through it and land on the ground.

  “The drainpipe!” Shambles yelled in her ear.

  “Easy for you!” Ondine yelled straight back.

  The claws left her shoulder and the ferret scarpered up the drain, all scritches and scratches as he found footholds in the rust. The rioters below were screaming and hollering now. She’d become the fox and they were a pack of slavering dogs.

  “Hurry!” Shambles again.

  “What do you think I’m doing? Taking a leisurely stroll?” Desperate for something to grab on to, Ondine reached up and clutched the lip of the guttering with one hand. Then she wedged her foot between the downpipe and the bracket holding it to the wall, pushing herself up. Her other hand grabbed more guttering.

  “Gotcha!” Someone grabbed Ondine by the other foot and pulled on her.

  Desperately she clung to the guttering, her arms burning in pain.

  The crowd erupted in screams.

  Claws raced down her arms. It had to be Shambles. Ondine felt but couldn’t see Shambles scarpering down her body towards her attacker. The other person suddenly screamed in agony and let got. Shambles must have bitten him good and proper.

  “Get up lass,” Shambles yelled.

  Muscles burned as she clung to the guttering and scrambled to the roof. “That’s it, nearly –”

  Whoosh!

  The guttering buckled, sending freezing dirty water and last autumn’s slimy leaves over them. Rivers of sludge poured into Ondine’s armpits, then drizzled down her torso. Somehow – probably adrenaline coursing through her from the fear –instinct had her hanging on. With a few more shuffles and shimmies, she found a new section of guttering that held her weight. Her legs found the top of a window for purchase and she pushed with all her might.

  A hand grabbed her by the wrist. “I’ve got ye.”

  She looked up into Hamish’s smiling face. Hamish back in his human form, with both his hands around hers, hauling her up onto the roof.

  She fell against him, breathing hard with relief. He spluttered as her wet hair fell across his face. Her wet, stinky, slimy hair.

  The crowd below them hollered. People were climbing trees to get onto the shop awnings – avoiding the ripped canvas – and clawing their way up the side of the buildings. No way did Ondine want to hang around to see if they reached the roof.

  The solid body of Hamish vanished out from under her and his ferret form scarpered to the roof ridge. “This way. Come on.”

  All things considered, it made a frustrating kind of sense to Ondine that he’d reverted straight back into a ferret. The sight of a naked man crawling over the roof wouldn’t exactly be a calming influence on the mob, would it?

  Spreading her weight out to minimise the chances of falling through, Ondine crawled on all fours, following Shambles. On the other side of the roof ridge, several shops opened out to a courtyard below. At the back of the buildings they found a narrow ladder, but the rungs were too far apart for Shambles to climb down safely, so he scrambled onto Ondine’s shoulder and took the easy way down.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, lass, but ye stink.”

  “You’re hardly a rose garden yourself,” she shot back.

  He rewarded her with a ferrety kiss on the cheek. Shame it wasn’t a human one. She could really do with one of them right about now.

  ​

  ​

  Chapter Fourteen

  ​

  The irritatingly slow drive to the Dentate had Vincent chewing at the nubby bits of skin on the side of his nails. If they went any slower they’d go backwards, but the crowds made it impossible to get momentum. Despite Babak’s security detail, supporters leapt too close to the car, slapping the panels and windows in support.

  “I’m getting out to walk,” he said.

  “No,” Babak’s hand slapped hard on his shoulder, welding him to the seat. “You are in no rush. You are patient and wise beyond your years. Yes?”

  “Yes, you’re right.”

  “You’re going to be wonderful,” Ruslana said.

  “Where’s Melody?” He hadn’t seen her since the lights had gone out during the glitch.

  “She said she was going back to the hotel for a rest.”

  Had she abandoned him at his moment of triumph? “What if I need her?”

  “All good,” Babak said. “It’s all done now, you’re the Duke. Relax and enjoy it.”

  Finally (had it only been ten minutes?) they reached the Dentate. A row of cadets stood guard by the side of the road, with a tank behind them. Floodlights lit the neo-classical facade with its fluted columns and stone steps.

  The driver pulled up. Babak, Ruslana and Vincent slid along the leather seat and climbed out the car, to a phalanx of flashing lights as the media throng jostled for the best shot. Vincent took his time, smiling and waving, as if greeting an invisible friend just on the other side of the photographers.

  He took the steps at a regal pace as reporters fired a barrage of questions at him:

  “Did you convince the Duchess to resign?”

  “Have you been planning this?”

  “What about democracy?”

  Keep looking relaxed and unhurried. Keep looking in control. Because you are in control.

  The reporters kept firing questions, he kept right on walking and waving.

  “What will happen to Anathea now?”

  “Is this against the constitution?”

  “How do you feel, now that you’re Duke?”

  The media crush managed to move aside enough for Vincent to make his way to the Dentate floor. Anathea and the First Minister would be waiting there for him. He’d sign the papers and dismiss them. Then he really would be Duke.

  One foot in front of the other. It was a miracle he could see at all thanks to the flash burns in his vision. Gradually the black rectangles faded to reddish blotches. Anathea came towards him, hand out to shake his. “Be good for Brugel,” she said.

  Before he could respond, she stepped away. The camera-flash blotches in his vision cleared enough to see Mrs Howser in the gallery, along with a few cadets. They’d been brilliant tonight, turning up and lending support at just the right moment.

  Melody may have bunked off earlier tonight, but maybe he didn’t need her any more as long as he had Birgit Howser in his corner?

  Natalia Cebotari, the first minister, guided him towards a table, where a series of papers waited for his signature. The fact the first minister had said nothing in protest only proved how powerful Mrs Howser’s magic could be. He’d reward the witch accordingly.

  Vincent took his seat and picked up a pen. Cameras clicked and flashed. Reporters kept firing questions but he ignored them. The only thing people needed was to see him signing papers. One by one he set his name to the space on each page, confirming his ascension.

  Quietly, Ruslana appeared at his side, her manicured hand lightly touching his shoulder in a show of support.

  KEEPING TO THE SHADOWS and away from the rioting mob, a dejected and defeated Ondine trudged home with the ferret on her shoulder. The mob had heard her message of love and utterly rejected it. Everything they’d done to help Anathea had failed.

  “We’ll be
all right lass,” Shambles said with forced cheeriness. He’d taken up position on her shoulder. “As soon as we get home, I’m running ye a nice hot bath with lots of bubbles.”

  Soaking in something clean and hot would be heavenly.

  “Aye, and I’ll wash yer hair for ye.”

  How lush. “Thanks.”

  “Although I cannae promise I’ll be able to stay out of the bath meself.”

  Despite the chill, heat bloomed on her cheeks. When he was Shambles, he could be so delightfully inappropriate. On they trudged, the cloudless sky sucking any remaining city warmth into the stars. Trembles and chills filled her body.

  “Only a few kilometres to go, hen. We’ll be there soon.”

  Shame having no clothes meant he couldn’t become his Hamish-self and give her a piggyback instead. She turned her collar up against the cold, only to find it wet and slimy from the gutter splash.

  “Mebbe if ye jog it will warm ye from the inside.”

  Lights twinkled up ahead from a mobile food van. The enticing smell of fried cheese balls carried on the wind. “Lend me a fiver will you?”

  “Err . . . I dinnae have any.”

  Now she really would cry. From the cold, from her wet clothes, from her sore feet and her all-over misery. “But you had money –”

  “– In meh pocket, when I had meh pants on, so I did.”

  The pocket of his pants, which were now lying somewhere at the bottom of a tree in central Venzelemma.

  “I could go back for them. If ye want me to?”

  “No point,” she said with a huge sigh. Honestly, she could sigh for Brugel at this rate. She couldn’t face walking all the way back to the base of the tree they’d climbed, in the forlorn hope of finding the pants Hamish had abandoned, let alone finding any money left in the pockets. The mob could still be there. They might recognise her. And she did not have the energy to go though all that again.

  “I’m just glad I have the keys.” Reaching inside her soggy clothes, she pulled out the lanyard. Where the keys had been were now the tattered edges of torn polyester. They must have ripped off during the tree climb. Or the roof climb. Or scrambling over the guttering.

  “I give up,” she slumped to the kerb. Any second now sobs would rack through her body and she’d be a blubbering mess on the cobblestones.

  “Whoa!” Shambles nearly fell off her shoulder. “Lass, dinnae give up. We’ve had a setback, that’s all. When we get to yer pub, I ken still scarper in and unlock the door from the inside.”

  Trudge home they did. Being an old city, many of Venzelemma’s streets were made from cobblestones. Beautiful for postcards but hell on the ankles. They came across cadets on street corners, moving people on.

  “Where are you going?” One of them asked Ondine.

  Dread filled her stomach. “Home,” she snuffled.

  “You go straight home then, and stay out of trouble,” the cadet said.

  She wasn’t going to argue with them. Finally they made it to the family pub. “I’ll be right back,” Shambles said as he scurried over the gate at the back of the family pub.

  Snick went the lock and the gate opened with a satisfyingly old creak. Good. At least they were in the beer garden. But still outside. Oh, hello, Hamish was his Hamishness. He’d pulled a tablecloth from the clothesline and draped it around himself, for modestly. What a shame. “Right, now, where do ye parents leave the spare key?” Hamish looked about the potted plants and checked under the back doormat.

  She drew the tattered ends of lanyard from her pocket. “They used to keep it on this.”

  “Right.” Hamish chewed on the inside of his cheek. Lost in thought. Then a look of determination came over his face and he stepped in and gave her a kiss. “I’m gointae get ye that bath I promised. Hold this for me.”

  He gave her the edge of the tablecloth. Just as she thought she might see something saucy, he flashed back into a ferret. A few minutes later, she heard footsteps from inside the hotel and a partially dressed Hamish opened the door. In his other hand – oh bliss – was an enormous bath towel.

  “I’ve goat the bath running already, so up ye get. I’ll get yer pyjamas for ye.”

  In the bathroom she shucked her slimy cold clothes off and climbed in. It was cold.

  Of course it was cold. It would be generous to even call the temperature tepid. The lack of steam should have given that away, but she hadn’t noticed. At least the water wasn’t freezing, because then she would have screamed. She turned the cold water tap off completely and stuck her head directly under the hot ­– but really tepid – water to get the slime out of her hair.

  It was her fault the water was cold. Because the rest of her family were away and it was just herself and Hamish, she’d turned the hot water service to mornings only, because they didn’t have guests and for once, she wouldn’t spend evenings up to her armpits in hot soapy water, washing dishes. She’d give anything for some hot water now. But the system was in the laundry, and that was in the room next door. That would mean getting out of the bath and getting really cold. Instead, she stayed under the hot tap until it got so cold she couldn’t stand it, then she turned it off and grabbed a fresh towel and rubbed her skin raw to help warm it up.

  There was a radio in here, against the wall. It crackled as she turned it on, which wasn’t surprising considering the years of condensation turning its belly to rust.

  “. . . reeling from the sudden abdication of Anathea, Duchess of Brugel in favour of her nephew Lord Vincent.” A man’s dulcet tones said.

  Ondine’s feet were so cold they’d started burning, which only served to boggle her all the more. How could a body part be so cold it felt like it was on fire? Wrapped in towels, she opened the door to find Hamish with a pile of nightwear in his arms. “I wasnae sure what ye wanted, so I brought a selection.”

  “You’re so sweet,” she gave him a kiss. “Put them on the chair over here.”

  On the radio, the reporter gave a description of what was happening in the streets of Venzelemma. “There’s a carnival atmosphere down here, as if people know they’re part of something momentous. It could be the excitement of the night, or it could be the need for youth to express their individuality.”

  “Howser’s spell sure did a number on everyone in the plaza, even the reporters,” Ondine said.

  “Aye. No mention of the tanks, or the confusion. The world has gone whirlypits.” [334]

  The report mentioned only the excitement of the night, and Vincent’s triumph.

  Ondine slipped an oversized nightshirt over her head, then modestly wriggled her towel out from beneath it. “Let’s get a fire going.”

  An hour or so later, they sat together, staring into the flickering light of the small fire. So much upheaval in one day meant neither of them would get much sleep.

  “Sometimes I feel so selfish,” Ondine said in a scared voice. Admitting the truth did that. “I want us to run away from all this . . . this mess. Just so I can be with you and to hell with the world. The trouble is, the next minute I want to storm the streets and liberate Brugel in a tank.”

  He rubbed her back but didn’t interrupt. That’s how wonderful he was.

  ​“What kind of person am I Hamish? Am I a coward or a fighter? I'm so scared this is it. That I'm not going to survive whatever crazy thing happens next.”

  He kissed her softly on the lips. “I'm so glad you said that, lass. I've been thinking the same, and thinking meself a scaredy cat for having thunk it.”

  He understood. Of course he did. He was her soul mate. With a shaky sigh, she admitted another truth. “Then there’s the devil on my shoulder not wanting to die a virgin.”

  He made a soft (but never condescending) chuckle. “Aye. I have one of them too saying the same thing.”

  As difficult as it was admitting her fears, she loved Hamish even more for accepting them and sharing his. That’s why they would always be together. They understood each other.

  They kissed
with a mixture of passion and sorrow, until reality crept back in, thanks to a sudden rapping at the pub door.

  “Stay here, lass I’ll sort it.” Hamish’s footsteps disappeared down the hall.

  Ignoring his instructions, Ondine padded after him, just in time to see Hamish untying the rope from a lumpy hessian sack on the doorstep. Old Col climbed out!

  She spluttered and complained. “Birgit Howser better sleep with one eye open from now on. Look at my beautiful dress, it’s ruined!”

  Overcome with relief and delight, Ondine flew at her great-auntie and wrapped her in a solid hug.

  “Don’t blubber on the bodice!” But there was no venom in Col’s words as she folded her arms around Ondine, her frail body shuddering with sobs.

  “It’s good tae see ye Old Col, ye must be fair puckled.”

  Wiping her eyes, Old Col looked at Hamish. “If you mean exhausted, you’re right. I could sleep for a week.”

  “We’ve lost, haven’t we?” Ondine said as they drew Old Col towards the fire so she could warm up too. She spoke the words she never thought possible, her voice cracking with exhaustion and disbelief. “It’s all over. Vincent’s won.”

  “Weil get through this lass.” Hamish gave her hand a squeeze. “It might be rubbish for a while, but we’ve still goat each other.”

  Such kind words did little to balm her ragged nerves.

  “Anybody home?” A shaky voice said.

  “Melody?” Ondine and Hamish said together.

  There she was, slumping against the doorframe.

  Hamish went to her, offering his arm for support. “Ye look done-in.”

  “I’m so sorry. For everything. I thought I could make him better. I thought maybe if I loved him enough he’d change. But he didn’t, and I had to leave or I would have lost my mind.”