Borage

by Gill McKnight

  “Howling newts,” Astral choked. Panic closed her throat. “What is this?”

  “It’s okay. We’re okay. Breathe in, breathe out, repeat. And continue ad infinitum.” Dulcie grabbed her hand and they sank back against the wall, breathless and repulsed in equal measure, their eyes glued to the morass of teeth scattered over the floor before them.

  Astral took several gulps of air, then, when her chest hurt a little less, she asked, “What’s going on here?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Dulcie answered, sounding exhausted and scared. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Do critters collect teeth?”

  “I don’t know. But if they do, then Ping’s a critter, and she put them there.” She shook her head. Sweet, little Ping, an evil ossuary-building monster. And suddenly the critter was back in the equation. “I can’t believe it, she’s so nice. Plus, a real live critter sort of muddies the water around Magdalene and her stealing.”

  “Astral,” Dulcie said, super quietly.

  “What?” Astral dropped her tone to match. A new dread started to crawl up her spine. Dulcie obviously had nothing good to tell her.

  “The last door on the right. You said the last door on the right had an animal behind it, didn’t you?”

  “Uh-huh. Why?”

  “It’s open.”

  Astral followed Dulcie’s gaze to the door in question. The snuffly door was ajar. A wave of nausea swept over her.

  “Oh,” she managed. “Oh, dear.” She swallowed loudly.

  “Tell me again how you got off this floor?” Dulcie asked in a whisper.

  “Along the corridor,” Astral whispered back, “then right towards the fire exit.”

  “Past the open door?”

  “Yes.”

  “You go first.”

  “No. You go first.”

  “No, you go— Astral.” Dulcie’s breath hitched. “There’s growling. I can definitely hear growling.”

  A long, low rumble gravitated from the shadows below the Boccioni print. The air chilled. The walls, the glass door panels, the carpet tiles under their backsides, all vibrated with a carnivorous bass. The menace was palpable.

  “I thought you said it snuffled.” Dulcie’s voice went reedy.

  “Move.” Astral was on her hands and knees skittering through a carpet of teeth, crawling full speed for the elevator. “Dulcie, I don’t care how you do it, but open the elevator doors right now.” She lurched awkwardly to her feet and plucked at Dulcie’s sleeve to help drag her upright. “Do it, Dulcie. Do magic. Now!”

  Coven rules be damned. If magic could get them onto the ninth floor of hell, then it could damned well get them off it.

  Dulcie scrabbled to her feet and they ran towards the elevator as fast as the crunching, rolling ebb of teeth underneath their feet would allow. The growling behind came closer, encasing them in a cocoon of sticky terror. Something was chasing them. Dulcie raised her hands and muttered a few unintelligible words and the elevator doors began to grind open, screeching in slow, noisy protest. There was no elevator car behind them, only a deadly descent into the flesh-tearing mechanism of the elevator shaft.

  “Dulcie!” Astral threw out her arm and brought them both to a toe-teetering stop on the very edge of the precipice. Dulcie continued chanting into the void of the elevator shaft, her body quivering with effort, her words fast, fierce, furious. The floor under them thundered with the advance of the growling beast behind them. The nape of Astral’s neck seemed to burn with its breath. She didn’t dare look over her shoulder, and yet her whole body was turning of its own volition, determined to square up to whatever it was charging towards them. Projector magic was forcing her to face it.

  She saw a dog, a black dog as big as a pony, shrouded in what she knew to be unnatural shadow. It stopped when it realised that she saw it. Its lips quivered, flashing rows of sharp, saliva-coated teeth. Red-rimmed eyes locked with hers—and Astral’s mind fried. She fell backwards in a swoon. In unfocussed, slow motion she saw Dulcie grab for her too late. She had passed the point of saving, she was falling, falling down, down… Astral’s mind filled with images of toppling headfirst down the elevator shaft, of lying among the cables a mangled, bloody—

  “Oof!” She landed on the floor of the elevator. As the breath exploded out of her, reality came slamming in. Dulcie knelt over her, slapping her cheeks. Over her shoulder, Astral could see the doors beginning to shudder slowly closed.

  “Astral,” Dulcie cried, slapping her face. “Wake up.” Astral grabbed her hand. “I’m okay. I passed out or something.”

  “What happened?”

  “I think it asked for a ginger glee,” she said fuzzily. The words in her mouth felt all wrong, as if she were drunk.

  “What did?”

  “That.” Astral pointed over Dulcie’s shoulder. Dulcie turned to look. The doors slid closed in agonising slow motion even as the beast began its final charge. Dulcie and Astral clutched each other and screamed. The beast leapt. The doors snapped shut and with an enormous crash, the monster hit metal, denting the doors. Untroubled, the elevator began a stately descent with a pan-pipe rendition of “Old Shep.”

  “What in Hecate was that?” Dulcie used the handrail to drag herself upright. “All I saw was a big, black blur. Like a tornado coming straight for us.”

  Astral rose stiffly. “Didn’t you see it? A humongous black dog.” Every inch of the beast was seared into her mind for all eternity. She could never erase it, not even with a lobotomy-sized scrubbing brush. The terror would haunt her forever. She examined her shaking hands. Then she caught sight of herself and Dulcie in the mirrored walls.

  “Oh, Dulcie, look at our hair. We look like someone tossed a grenade into a rat’s nest, then threw in more rats.”

  Dulcie clearly didn’t give a damn. “I couldn’t make out what it was. All I had was this horrible sensation.” She sagged against the wall. “A wave of fear swallowed me whole. I was totally aware of my own mortality, the inconsequence of my existence, how worthless I was. Everything was doom, death, decay.” She shoved her glasses back up the sweating bridge of her nose. “I feel really depressed now.”

  Astral frantically patted her hair. The lift was slowing. They were nearly free of this awful place. “I saw it clearly and it was a hellhound.”

  “A hellhound?” Dulcie said, aghast. “In this dimension?”

  “We’ve got our critter.” Part of her was proud, maybe two percent, while the other ninety-eight percent was jelly. The doors dinged open and they came face to face with Ping. Astral stiffened. Ping was no longer a friend—she knew what lurked on the ninth floor, she’d collected all those teeth, she had called the beast Shucky, she…was looking at their hair, expression shocked.

  “What happened to your hair?” Her gaze swung around the elevator. “Was there a short circuit?”

  Astral and Dulcie pushed past her and ran for the door.

  Chapter 10

  “…and they just ran out.” Ping motioned towards the revolving doors to clarify.

  Abby was neither enlightened nor appeased by the clarification. What had Astral been up to now?

  “And you stood by and let them leave,” she stated flatly. She’d been called down to the main foyer by her semi-hysterical receptionist and was currently very displeased as to why. “Even though you could see something was clearly amiss?”

  Ping nodded mutely. Abby glared—mutely—and on apparently sensing that she needed to elaborate far beyond a nod, Ping reluctantly reached in her pocket and drew out a small, somewhat decayed premolar, and handed it over.

  “I found this on the floor of the elevator. And you should have seen their hair.” She mimicked what Abby could only surmise to be a mushroom cloud from a nuclear explosion. Despite herself, Abby almost smiled. Astral’s mood barometer hair was part of her strangely appealing charm.

  The elevator behind her dinged, the doors slid open, and Fergal puffed into the reception area. He took one look at the tooth resting in the
hollow of Abby’s palm and blanched.

  “All you had to do was keep her busy,” Abby said. “Have you any clue what she’s been up to?”

  His head jerked as if the question had slapped him in the face. “Ah. Um…you see—”

  “Shut up, Fergal.” She was in no mood for his lies. She regarded the tooth dispassionately, tossed it back to Ping and said, “Get up to the ninth and make sure all is in order.” She turned to leave and added as an afterthought, “and get Magdalene Curdle in here now.”

  *

  “What the hell is going on, Dulcie?” Astral’s hands stung with adrenaline. She gripped the steering wheel tighter, hoping the tingling would stop. She wanted to be away from Black and Blacker as fast as possible.

  “We need to regroup. We need to find out who Black and Blacker really are. And we need to take another look at Magdalene’s contract,” Dulcie said grimly. “We’re missing something, and we’d better find out what that is, as soon as possible.”

  “I can’t believe there was a critter after all. Have we got Magdalene all wrong?” Astral swung into the village square and rolled up to Dulcie’s shop.

  “No, we damned well haven’t. This thing is more complex than we guessed.” Dulcie glared out the window. “What on earth is he up to?”

  Damián was out on the pavement moving flower buckets back inside the shop. They parked up beside him.

  “There’s going to be a storm.” He cast an anxious look at the darkening skies. “And the forecast was so sunny this morning.” He sounded personally aggrieved. The sky had turned apocalyptic purple, like one huge bruise.

  “We might as well shut up shop.” Dulcie hopped out. “No one’s going to buy flowers in a downpour.”

  “Yay,” Damián crowed. Then, “I’m getting paid, right?” Dulcie ignored him.

  Across the square, Astral noticed two women emerge from the Big Bus Café. The wind whipped at their coats as they said goodbye and went separate ways.

  Erigone scooted off towards The Shrine, her swishy jewellery shop, a bijou establishment noted for its discreet service and high-end, handmade pieces, and especially for diamonds. Rich folks from London were always driving down on the weekend to browse Erigone’s collections and enjoy the scenic little village only a few miles from the coast. Her patrons were of wealth and consequence, and often made enquiries after village property only to be disappointed that none ever came on the market. It was tantamount for witching villages to keep themselves as isolated as possible while not alerting anyone that something shady was going on.

  The other windswept woman was Eve Wormrider. She plodded off in the opposite direction with her head lowered and her collar wrapped tightly around her neck. The sudden weather change had caught her out as much as it had Damián. Astral watched with smug fascination as Eve removed her large sunglasses in order to see where she was going and in doing so, revealed a huge black eye. It was a corker, and Astral silently applauded the Irish blues for protecting the Projector home so thoroughly. They were splendid little geraniums.

  As if sensing she was being watched, Eve Wormrider looked over and scowled. Astral, with a maturity beyond her years, stuck her tongue out. Eve hesitated and looked like she might cross the square to the car, an idea that horrified Astral to the extent she slid an inch lower in her seat. A sudden rap on the passenger window startled her. It was Dulcie.

  Astral lowered the window and Dulcie shouted over the rising wind, “I’ll pop over as soon as I wrap up here. Meanwhile, call Keeva. It’s her afternoon off.”

  On the other side of the square, Eve Wormrider gave a squawk and flapped her arms around foolishly.

  “What is she doing now?” Dulcie said.

  It took a moment before they could make out the small brown bomber currently mobbing Eve Wormrider’s head. The little bird dove at her again and again, while she tried to swat him off.

  “What the—Merryman! Merryman, come back here now,” Dulcie called. “What is he thinking?”

  “Oh, my lore .” Damián stopped to watch. “He’s a menace.”

  “You were supposed to be keeping an eye on him,” Dulcie snapped. She held out her hand and her familiar obediently flew across the square to land on her finger.

  “He has a mind of his own and you know it,” Damián protested. “You’re a sneaky little flying rat.” He scolded Merryman.

  “Now I’ll have to go and apologize to her,” Dulcie muttered, but Eve Wormrider was nowhere to be seen.

  “She’s full of badness and he can sense it. Your geraniums potted her good and proper.” Astral had little sympathy for Eve Wormrider. She had crossed a line the day she crossed her porch uninvited. “Okay, I’ll head home and go over the contract with a fine-tooth comb. See you later.” She closed the car window against the first fat splashes of rain.

  The drive home was a race against the weather. Her house and animals were nervous about storms and thanks to Eve Wormrider’s previous breaking and entering, they’d had enough upset already. Astral put her foot down hard on the accelerator. Already, she could hear the rumble of thunder on the horizon. It growled like a bad portent, or maybe a hellhound.

  *

  The farm was quiet when she pulled up before the barn. No ducks came to greet her but that was hardly surprising. The approaching storm had sent them into a huddle under the reeds at the farthest end of the pond. From inside the barn, she could hear the quiet cluck of hens in the hayloft. Her poultry was settling in for the long term.

  There was work for her to do to secure the place. The garden gate swung crazily in the heightening wind and needed extra-tight latching. Wind chimes had blown off their hooks onto the porch floor. As Astral tidied them away to hang up later, she noted how subdued her potted plants were. They had practically shrunken in on themselves. Even the Irish blues were sullen. Her home was in lockdown, which indicated the approaching storm was going to be a big one.

  In the hallway, the grandfather clock chimed a haphazard welcome, and wayward lightning flashes blazed across the wallpaper. Astral smiled wanly. She was still shaken after her hellhound experience and had no energy for the house overreacting to a storm.

  “There’s no time to soothe your frazzled nerves today, house. I’ve some serious research to do. You’ll just have to get over it.” Advice she intended to take herself. “A nice cup of tea is what we need.”

  In the kitchen, her copy of Magdalene’s contract lay on the table. Borage sat hissing on top of it, his black tail as spiky as a saguaro, his panicked emerald gaze locked on the back door.

  “Not you, too.” Astral dumped her handbag on the nearest chair and reached to fill the kettle. “It’s only a storm,” she told him. “Between you and this house, anyone would think the apocalypse was on its w—”

  Scratching came from outside the kitchen door. Borage crouched into a tense ball and fixated on it spookily. The scratching came again. And again. A quiet, insistent sound, almost apologetic in its persistence. Astral moved slowly towards the door.

  Don’t you dare! Borage’s horrified yowl bounced inside her head.

  “What is it?” she whispered. His answer was a long, itching hiss that she assumed meant he didn’t know but was as scared as she was. Her kitchen door was half glass covered with a lace curtain. All Astral could make out were lengthening shadows throwing her backyard into alien relief. The afternoon had turned twilight under the darkening sky. Thunderclouds brooded over the distant hills. Fat, heavy raindrops slowly smacked into the dirt, breaking flower petals and bending leaves, threatening a deluge of Biblical proportions. She squinted into the pewter light.

  “What’s out there, Borage?” With trembling fingers, she pushed back the curtain and found herself nose to nose with the biggest, blackest hellhound ever. Its wet nose pressed against the glass pane steaming up the thin barrier between them. Blood red eyes stared intently at her, level with hers, even though she was standing and it was seated on the back doorstep. It was a massive brute. It blinked, a flas
h of red—no white—in its beastly eyes. Its tail rose and fell in one loud, damp thump.

  Astral wanted to scream. She may even have tried, but no sound came out and instead, she swallowed, nearly choking on the lump in her throat. Behind her, she was vaguely aware of a mad scrabbling as Borage fell off the table and ran from the room. A cold, resonant silence descended as her utter aloneness with this very present danger slowly settled in her mind. She was going to die.

  She was going to die here and now, because she’d done a really stupid thing. She was a witch who’d gone looking for a critter…and found it. This red-eyed beast had come to devour her, to suck her dry, to destroy her. It reeked of the end of all things. The beast’s voice slowly inched into her head, not unlike a familiar’s would. It was as deep as a hell pit, but polite, respectful even, and it said, You has glees?

  *

  Magdalene Curdle sat erect, as cool as a cucumber and as inscrutable as the sphinx. But underneath, she squirmed like a worm on a hook. To Abby’s jaundiced eye, the struggle was all too familiar. She knew every trick of the habitual defaulter. The lies, the promises, the arrogant assumption that things would go exactly as she wanted them to, that she could spin the very air into something more than empty, empty words. Defaulters always thought they knew everything, but they never did. And the things they failed to understand were in full view all the time, in the small print. And for all her haughty demeanour, Magdalene had neglected to read hers.

  “I did deliver. Right to your door,” Magdalene argued, her pallor white, lips thin and colourless.

  “You sent me a princess?” Abby responded, tone cold. The air in her office dropped several degrees to match it. “I don’t think so.” She got straight to the point, blunter than usual because it had been a shitty morning and she didn’t like Magdalene Curdle anyway. The woman was power hungry, amoral, and slippery—the norm for any working day in this office. But every once in a while, Abby met a client who made her lip curl. Someone she delighted in spelling things out for.