Borage

by Gill McKnight

  “Personally, I’m finding it hard going.” A hard-backed version of The Poisonwood Bible flew out the window, braining a hell-hen. The white lace bookmark fluttered loose and spun away and Astral felt a terrible jolt of loss for her grandmother. What would she make of the debacle unfolding in front of her house?

  “I mean, has anyone laid eyes on Eve Wormrider yet?” Dulcie sent out a few more zingers.

  “Not that I know of.” Next, Astral flung a silver-backed hairbrush, then paused to have a small panic. “Oh dear. That was probably too good to chuck.”

  “It’s war, not a KonMari session.”

  “I’m knackered, and nearly out of magic. I hope it stops soon,” Astral said.

  Dulcie snorted. “War bleeds you dry one way or another. Oh, my Hecate.”

  “What?” Astral tried for another blue sizzler. It spun off her palm and electrified its intended target without spluttering or fading out. “Hey, I’m getting better.”

  “Resources, Astral,” Dulcie cried. “They’re using up our resources.”

  “But why? In about fifteen minutes they’ll belong to Hellbent and their magic will be sucked out of them. It is quite literally the merger from hell.” Fifteen minutes was her guestimate. The full moon still had a few degrees to go before it reached full height and the merger began.

  “Or maybe their magic won’t be sucked away,” Dulcie said. “Maybe it will be replenished. Maybe the real goal all along was not a twee little countryside coven but to grab the Projector house?”

  Astral looked at her, agape. The lauded Projector home? Oh, Hecate. It made sense. Of course, all this had to be about something bigger. Why hadn’t they seen it before? Why hadn’t they worked it out? Her heart sank like a ducking stool. Abby Black had played her, and like a fool, she’d fallen for it. And for a lot more. She kicked herself.

  A manic twittering announced the arrival of Merryman. He ducked through the window and flopped exhausted on the sill, warbling ten to the dozen, and so fast that Astral couldn’t follow him. Her head trilled alarmingly with his twittering. She got the gist though—danger, and a lot of it.

  “Merryman says Wormrider’s on the way,” Dulcie muttered grimly, “with Hellbent.” She sent out a telepathic warning, “These skirmishes were intended to weaken us. The main attack is on its way. Buckle up, people.”

  “What do you mean?” Magdalene’s response snapped like a wire lasso in everyone’s minds. “Hellbent was supposed to hoover them up, not help them. Ms Black assured us Hellbent didn’t involve itself in client wars.”

  “Well, war is not Ms Black’s department, as she warned us.” Astral tried mind-blending, and was pleased she managed so well. Her voice might be reedy, but it was still decipherable. She was getting better at a lot of things in the heat of the moment.

  “The last lot were a decoy. They’re trying to use up our magic. The real event hasn’t started yet,” Dulcie said.

  Along the lane, Astral could see an army of witches marching confidently behind Eve Wormrider. No skulking in the hedgerows for this lot. They were brazen and full of confidence. Over Eve’s head, a platoon of witches rode broomsticks in a low V formation, and behind that, a hazy, bluish elemental glow brought up the rear. The floating glow worried Astral most, as she couldn’t identify it.

  “Looks like Wormrider has arrived with Hellbent,” Dulcie added telepathically. “The main body is coming in from Golem and they’ll be here any minute now.” Her update was greeted by silence as each Guardian digested the demoralising news.

  “Ye mean we haven’t won?” Fergal sounded indignant at this new development.

  “We haven’t even started,” Dulcie informed him drily.

  There came the thunk of a cork being pulled at his end. Then, “Begorrah and blast,” followed by the glug of him chugging from a bottle.

  “We’re too thin on the ground to protect the house from a large contingent.” Keeva came through loud and clear. “Can we converge in one area and make a sort of stronghold and hold that until dawn? If they’ve already merged with Hellbent, then daybreak should disperse them like most critters.”

  “Holding them until dawn is a lot harder than holding them ’til the moon’s zenith.” Erigone’s connection was crisp and clear, and Astral envied her. “What’s the plan?”

  “Take out as many as we can now while they’re in tight formation, and on my command, fall back floor by floor towards the kitchen,” Dulcie said. “We’ll clear the attic rooms first.”

  Outside, there was an eerie break in hostilities as the advance party moved back to join their main force and for the less fortunate to enter triage.

  “What’s that haze floating at the back of Eve’s pack?” Astral asked Dulcie.

  “Dunno. Hope it’s not the magical equivalent of a nuclear weapon.”

  Merryman twittered and Dulcie lunged for him before he could extend his wings and stuffed him down her blouse in a blink. “Oh, no you don’t, buster,” she told him. “We’ll find out soon enough without you ‘taking a look.’”

  “Here they come,” Fergal roared from above. The broomstick platoon broke pattern and streaked towards the house, whooshing upwards towards the attic.

  “Watch the roof.” Astral sent her message upwards after them.

  Thuds, clattering, and shrieks followed as witches, tiles, and broomsticks rained to the ground and crashed. The house shed its roof tiles, upending whoever landed on them. Teeth and coins whizzed and whanged, along with the war whoops of Ping and Fergal. The ivy that had embraced the front of the house for several generations reached out and plucked broomsticks out of mid-air, snapping them in two, then tossing their riders aside like ragdolls. The chimneys belched out acrid, blinding smoke at all who flew near. The noise from above was stupendous.

  There came a boom from the front attic and the smell of charred tweed, then Ping’s cry of, “Man down! Man down!”

  “Go help. I’m all right here,” Dulcie shouted to Astral over the roar of the energy balls she was launching at any target she could find.

  Upstairs, Astral found Ping crouched over a pan-fried Fergal. He was scorched from head to toe, clothes singed, his hair on end and smoking slightly. He mewled weakly. Broken glass and the strong smell of whiskey surrounded him.

  “He was taking a sip from his hipflask when a zinger hit him and he exploded,” Ping told her, wide-eyed with worry. From above came the scrabble of witches desperately trying to land while the roof tiles ripped away from under them. The constant crash, squeal, and slither made Astral’s head reel.

  “Help me get him to the kitchen.” She stuck her hands under Fergal’s armpits while Ping grabbed his feet. As a leprechaun, Fergal was a small man, but they soon found he was suspiciously solid when hoisted. “For Hecate’s sake. Shake the gold out of him.” A quick rattle from both ends had dozens upon dozens of gold coins slipping out of Fergal’s pockets, making the burden considerably lighter.

  “The roof is looking after itself,” Astral called over to Martha in the rear attic rooms, as she and Ping stumbled past with Fergal. “You need to start pulling back now.”

  “We’re right behind you,” Martha called back. “Just a few easy targets to take care of first.” And she whacked a witch out of mid-air to frantic yelps of approval from her Jack Russell.

  As they manoeuvred Fergal downstairs, Astral relayed the withdraw message to each floor.

  They laid Fergal in his favourite armchair and Ping judiciously washed the grime from his face and lured him back to wakefulness by waving the cork from an Islay malt under his nose.

  Astral returned to the parlour to help Delia zing any witches whose fall from the roof hadn’t incapacitated them fully.

  “It’s like shooting fish in a barrel,” Delia told her and zapped a twitching body.

  “Save your ammo for the big push,” Astral cautioned her. “It’s time to pull back. The parlour can take care of itself if they come through this way.”

  Delia headed for th
e kitchen. Astral went to follow her, but felt compelled to take a last look at the ensemble rolling up her lane to annihilate her family home.

  “That blue cloud thingy is getting bigger.” Dulcie appeared behind her. “I’ve done a sweep of the top floors and everyone has drawn back to the kitchen. It’s Alamo time.” She placed a hand on Astral’s shoulder. “Come on, we need to go.”

  They started to leave when a brilliant flash from outside lit up the parlour with an eerie blue light. Shoulder to shoulder, they spun back to the window. Was this the next wave of attack? The cloud hanging to the rear of Eve Wormrider’s troops disengaged itself and moved slowly forwards. Jagged blue lightning bolts blazed from it. Gradually, the blinding mass began to resolve into several separate forms—hazy, translucent figures floating in midair, eerily spectral and definitely feminine in form.

  “What are those?” Dulcie asked. She sounded worried. “I’m not liking the look of them.”

  “Um…” Astral blinked to make sure her eyes were working correctly. “That’s the Black and Blacker Reconciliations team,” she said, focussing on Iraldine at the fore, elegant, beautiful, and lethal in her otherworldly robe of bubbling blue miasma.

  “What in Hecate are they doing here?” Dulcie asked.

  Astral grimaced. “Overtime?” And why wasn’t Abby there? She was part of Black and Blacker. Not that she wanted to see her again or anything.

  Iraldine and her team slowly spasmed into something else entirely. Their faces grew longer and haggard and totally unlovely. Fingers hooked into ugly claws, and their teeth lengthened into crooked yellowing fangs.

  “Banshees,” Astral yelled as the figures finally revealed what reconciliations was all about. And why not? Iraldine worked for Abby Black like Fergal, or Ping, or any other critter for that matter. Not everything was as pleasant as leprechauns and tooth fairies. “They’re banshees. Run for your life.” She pushed Dulcie forcibly out of the parlour.

  There came a roaring whoosh, and when she glanced over her shoulder she saw the fanged she-devils flying full-tilt towards the house like otherworldly warheads.

  Oh, Hecate. They were in it now.

  Chapter 17

  The whole house shook. Windows exploded and a ton of soot burst from the fireplaces and spewed out over the carpets. Astral and Dulcie fled to the kitchen. Around them, furniture began to creak and shift and pile up to block the broken windows. The old grandfather clock propped itself against the front door. From out on the porch, they could hear the whiz of the remaining flowerpots as they smacked into the soft flesh of witches and familiars alike with as much fervour as bad-tempered begonias and busy Lizzies could muster. Astral slammed the door closed from the kitchen to the hallway and locked it.

  She patted the oak wood. “Stand true, old friend.”

  The house rumbled as every timber in it contracted and expanded, every brick straining to force back the repellent magic swirling around it. The crashing of furniture, rending of fabrics, and smashing of glass and ceramics relayed that the enemy had infiltrated, and there was now total warfare in every room. Each thud, bang, and crash was accompanied by a yell, groan, or scream—the house was winning.

  Keeva and Damián remained in their original positions by the main kitchen window. Erigone and Dulcie waited by the back door, as an assault from that direction was a definite. Astral and Ping took the centre of the room, ready to back up any weak spots. Fergal sat in his chair and sizzled, the untouched glass of whiskey in his shaking hand a sign of his deep shock. Delia and Magdalene, sharing the window over the sink, poured out fire-flares while Martha and Tallulah took the pantry, using its smaller window to coordinate an unrelenting stream of electrical zingers that fried everything that moved before them.

  A chimney stack avalanched into the backyard with an ear-splitting crash. It squashed two unlucky witches, and from under the pile of red bricks, a dim fluorescent blue glow snuffed out.

  “What the hell was that?” Keeva coughed the dust from her lungs.

  “The banshees are trying to come down the chimneys,” Astral answered as another thunderous crash from the front of the house told a similar story. “The chimneys are collapsing and crushing them inside.”

  “Banshees?” Ping squeaked. “Reconciliations is here?”

  “Shouldn’t they be helping us, or at least stay neutral?” Magdalene asked.

  “Iraldine is, as usual, seeing things her own way,” Astral muttered.

  “She’s got a grudge since Abby dumped her. She and her team moved to Ms Blacker’s department.”

  Ping’s news pricked at Astral’s ears but there was no time for questions. A zinger flew through the window and glanced off Damián and proceeded to ricochet around the room until Erigone shot it down mid-air. A trickle of blood ran from Damián’s temple to his jawline.

  “Are you all right?” Astral asked. He looked terrified.

  “Lookin’ roguish,” Keeva said approvingly, and he immediately bloomed into a warrior.

  “Right, that’s it, bitches,” he yelled, and easily manifested a cherry bomb in his hands and flung it in anger.

  The cries and crashing as the house fought back advanced down the hall, coming nearer and nearer. My poor crystal. The thought entered Astral’s head at a particularly awful, yet melodic implosion, followed by a high-pitched squeal. At least the decanter with matching glasses had taken a foe down with them in their final sacrifice.

  “Your lovely old house will be in bits after this,” Ping whispered.

  “Meaning, it can’t be the house they want. Otherwise, why destroy it?” There was no time for Astral to ponder this. The stovepipe began banging loudly.

  “Incoming,” Delia called from her window.

  “They’re massing for the big push,” Magdalene confirmed.

  The remainder of Eve Wormrider’s forces were gathering across the yard, hiding behind walls, outbuildings, vehicles—anything that offered protection from the assault coming from the kitchen windows. Chickens and ducks flew at them from all quarters, flushing a few out as open targets, but the poultry division was fatigued and outnumbered, and could not stop the inevitable.

  “Here they come,” yelled Keeva.

  The Guardians tensed, waiting for the blow, when overhead a shadow flitted across the moonlit yard, soon followed by the hum of many, many small twigs vibrating in the air. Suddenly, the night sky was ablaze with a rainbow of hues as zingers, sizzlers, fire-flares, and other magical armaments Astral had never seen the likes of, rained down on Wormrider’s forces.

  “Oh, thank Hecate,” Dulcie cried. “It’s the townsfolk. They’ve come to help us.”

  Above them, Gina Biscotti headed a flange of broomstick-riding witches. At her side, a rather wobbly Old Mother Worriwort clung on to her broom bravely. Behind them, the grim-faced, non-affiliated witches of Golem rode posse. They had at last chosen a side.

  “Ha, Wormrider,” Keeva crowed. “Think you can burn our village and not get a poke in the eye back?”

  Between the poultry and the overhead missile attack, the witches in the yard had nowhere to hide and were now committed to attacking the Projector kitchen, the last Guardian stronghold.

  Everything seemed to happen at once, yet to Astral, it all unfolded in slow motion. The alarm on her wristwatch went off, and the stovepipe exploded and spit out smoke, soot, and a flaming blue Iraldine. The witches stormed the kitchen in a screaming hoard. An unheralded stream of zingers, cherry bombs, and power balls flew in both directions, flattening dozens of Wormrider’s troops, but still they came.

  Delia took a hit square in the chest and was flung across the room. The door between the kitchen and the hall burst open under a hail of red-tailed fire-flares. One whipped straight through Erigone, tossing her sideways. She collapsed like a ragdoll. Magdalene screamed and ran to her. Under a shower of punches and blows, Keeva was dragged out the window by several angry witches. Lupin pounced but was himself quickly overwhelmed.

  Magic exhaust
ed, Damián backed into a corner and began throwing crockery. Ping retreated alongside him and used her catapult as best she could. Martha, Dulcie, and Tallulah fought hand to hand, as witches scrabbled in through the windows and poured in from the hall. Jasper and Casper barked wildly and bit ankles, while Merryman dive-bombed like a crazy thing. But all to no avail. The Guardians were hopelessly outnumbered and Astral knew they were defeated.

  She faced an enraged Iraldine, alone in their bubble, far, far removed from the mayhem surrounding them. All the beauty had drained from the banshee’s face, now a rictus of skeletal anger, eyes blazing, full of hate. On the floor between them, thrown from the shattered stove, lay Astral’s loaf tin.

  “You will pay for this,” Magdalene screamed.

  The bubble burst—blasted open by the last furious rays of Magdalene’s magical power and a mother’s grief. She nursed her dying daughter in her arms and howled. “All of you will pay,” she roared. “I call upon Death. I have a contract, and I demand mediation now. I call upon you, Abaddon, Angel of Death. Destroyer of Nations. Leveller of Kingdoms. Downfall of Mankind!”

  Magdalene threw out such a spike of raw, nerveless energy that everyone stilled. Iraldine froze at the mention of her ex-lover, while other witches, perhaps too familiar with Magdalene’s former position, hesitated, confused at her order. Everyone except Astral was frozen into the nakedness of the moment. And in that moment, Astral found her mind filled with clear, bright purpose, and she reached for the loaf tin and crumbled away the cake to extract her wholly healed wand. She held it aloft in triumph, and also to admire the simple, natural beauty of the old, worn hazel— “Ow, ow. Hot.” It was still roasting. She tossed it from hand to hand and, like a loaded weapon in the hands of a fool, it went off with a whoosh and plastered Iraldine to the wall. Glowing blue gunk oozed into a puddle on the floor tiles. Oh, shit.