“I most certainly did not, though I suspected the Projector family had something to do with her disappearance, as did Magdalene Curdle.”
“Which is why she wanted to contract with you,” Astral said. What was happening? Had her grandmother had something to do with this after all? “I had no idea.”
Abby squeezed her shoulder again and Astral wished her touch was more than fleeting.
“We’ll never hear the end of it if Magdalene was right,” Keeva said.
“My face.” Eve Wormrider writhed on the ground. “It’s burning.”
“Serves you right,” Keeva snapped.
“You’ve been hell-fired,” Abby said with a barely perfunctory glance. “Go to the barn and see if some of your friends can magic up a cure.”
“And don’t ask for help from us.” Damián stuck his tongue out at her as she staggered to her feet and lurched towards the barn.
Abby joined Dulcie, Keeva, and Astral, who followed Molotova all the way to the kitchen, where she was rifling the fridge.
“Where do you keep the sardines?” She grabbed a pint of cream and chugged it straight from the carton.
“Ew.” Astral wrinkled her nose. “Not much has changed, really. Except she can open the fridge.”
“Here.” Dulcie conjured up some clothes more or less befitting a teenage grunger, plus the red DMs. Molotova donned them without a word of thanks.
Dulcie rolled her eyes. “Does this mean Magdalene is off the hook?”
“And by Magdalene, we mean The Plague Tree Coven, because I’m damned if we’re having her back,” Keeva said adamantly.
“I think we need to assemble and reassess the situation.” Abby seemed extremely satisfied. “There are numerous protocols we need to employ to restore the princess back to the royal family, thus nullifying the contract.”
“And Iraldine?” Astral asked. “Can you reassess the situation with her? I’ll need to mop this floor.”
“Iraldine’s new boss will have to deal with her and the mess she and Ms Wormrider made. I’d touch nothing if I were you until the loss adjuster arrives and takes notes.”
“You can stay at my place for a while,” Dulcie offered.
“Thank you,” Astral said. “This is all too much.” She carefully put the wand back in the dresser drawer. It seemed the safest place for it. “At least the wand is back, but I’ve somehow lost a familiar…if I ever had a familiar, that is.” She looked over at Molotova, who was messing with her hair. “I’m not sure about anything anymore.”
“Tea,” Keeva said. “That might help.”
“Good idea,” Astral agreed. “Ms Black, will you join us?”
“I’d be delighted. Thank you.”
Astral filled the kettle with water to make a pot of tea, only to find the stove was in pieces, scattered around the Iraldine blob. “Sorry, friends. No tea, after all.”
“Let’s go to the parlour.” Keeva held up a bottle of whiskey she had unearthed from somewhere and motioned at several mismatched glasses on the table. “It may not be the best crystal, but we all need a dram, I’ll bet.”
“Ms Black? Will you be joining us for that?” Astral asked, hoping she would.
“If you don’t mind.”
Astral managed a smile. “I’d like you to.”
She smiled back. “Then I shall.”
“I’ll get Damián and Ping,” Dulcie said.
“What about the other witches in there?” Keeva asked. “Who’ll keep an eye on them?”
“Riff-Raff will keep an eye on things.” And knowing Abby was in-house might prevent them from acting up or running. Astral poured a hefty dram into each glass and handed them out.
“Ms Blacker can organise that lot in the barn, too.” Abby raised her glass and took an appreciative sniff. “Why, Ms Projector. You have fine taste in scotch.” The appreciation made Astral glow inside as bright as the malt.
“I’m a Fireside witch,” she said, as if it should have been obvious that she would have good scotch in her home.
“And I am more appreciative of that every day.”
Astral ignored Keeva’s questioning expression directed at her.
“Well. Overall, this has been a splendid day,” Abby announced and toasted those gathered.
And Astral could see why. Abby had found the missing princess, making Magdalene Curdle’s contract effectively go away. Her nasty ex-girlfriend was a puddle on the kitchen floor, and somehow, she’d snuck Astral back to Black and Blacker. And all with zero paperwork. Of all those assembled, she appeared the most content, although the whiskey was working its magic on the rest quickly.
Only Astral still felt frayed around the edges.
She went to the rocking chair, happy to feel the heat from the fireplace seep into her bones. A lump at the small of her back caused her to reach back and pull the bolster onto her lap. It wriggled in her hands. “What the…” a small black kitten clambered out of the cotton cover into her arms, meowing pitifully.
“Oh, my Hecate,” Dulcie gasped. “It’s the real Borage, as a kitten.”
“But…but how?” Astral gently cradled the mewling ball of jet black fur.
Dulcie leaned closer. “Grandma Lettice must have bewitched him. No one else could do a thing like that under this roof.”
“This is the most curious of families,” Abby said as she, too, studied the kitten. “Replacing a familiar with a kidnapped princess. Why would your grandmother do such a thing?”
Astral shrugged. “I have no idea. Clearly, there are many things about my family that I don’t know.”
The kitten mewled again.
“I’d better get some food for this little guy.” She held his face up to her own. “Welcome back, buddy.” She kissed his wet nose. “Let’s hope Her Highness has left you some cream, eh?”
“And where is Her Highness?” Abby asked, glancing around.
“Sleeping in the linen basket on the top landing,” Keeva said. “I think there are a few habits she’ll need to break.”
Astral carried Borage into the kitchen, Abby following. Already, the kitchen was in the process of repairing itself.
“You may not need a loss adjuster after all,” Abby said. “The kitchen seems to be taking care of itself.” She looked around with interest. “This house never fails to amaze me.” She moved to the wall and regarded the family portrait that had somehow managed to remain untouched, if a little askew.
“Is Myriad there?” Astral asked as she scooped a tin of tuna onto a saucer for the new, yet original, Borage. He buried his whiskers in it and purred happily.
“Seems so,” Abby murmured and stepped away. “I should gather my team and get back to the office.”
There was a moment of silence as they both digested separate thoughts, then Abby said, “Will I see you Monday morning?” She sounded hopeful and almost…light?
“About that,” she answered cautiously.
Abby’s lips twitched. It was an infinitesimally small tell, but Astral caught it. She cleared her throat. “I’m prepared to keep my side of the bargain,” she said, “but I will not work for the dark side. I am a creature of light, a witch from the True Path, and that can never change.”
Abby nodded. “I don’t expect you to change. My work is not of the dark side. I contract the passing of souls, usually in an orderly, timely way. The contracts you’ve been working on are the deals certain individuals make when bartering their souls, humankind’s devaluation of its greatest gift.”
“And we need to talk about the work package you offered. I have conditions.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Abby smiled, and it altered her whole face. Astral swallowed the lump that suddenly formed in her throat. She knew that working in such close proximity, she would have to tussle with these unexplained and unexpected emotions. But simply saying “no,” and walking away didn’t feel like the correct option either.
“I also expect you to explain to me what the hell happened with Molotova and Borage
and everything…at least what you know of it.”
Abby frowned. “Unfortunately, that I cannot do, as I suspect your coven knows more about it than I do. In fact, that is something you need to explain to me when you’re ready.”
Who in the coven would know this? And would any of them talk to her? Martha and Tallulah came to mind. She’d most likely start with Magdalene, but right now, she really just wanted to sit by the fire, play with the real Borage, and sip scotch.
Abby set her empty glass gently on the table. “Thank you for the drink. I must go and collect Ping and Fergal now.”
“Fergal’s there.” Astral pointed to the chair in the corner. He had barely moved an inch since his combustion. He still looked a little wild-eyed, and his thick tweed coat reeked of smoke.
“I think he needs the rest of the weekend to recover.” Abby sighed. “I’ll get the boys from Dividends to look after him.”
“Will I be working for him when I go back?”
“You’ll be my personal assistant,” Abby said. Then she stopped and tapped her chin with one of her elegant fingers. “Or perhaps a new title. Contract consultant. Something that doesn’t necessarily mean you work directly for me. Some sort of interdepartmental role. If you accept the position, that is.” She looked momentarily anxious and Astral found it strangely endearing. “There have been changes and more are due. Fergal will go back to his old team and Iraldine…” She gave the blue puddle a quick, disinterested glance. “You arrive at an opportune moment, Ms Projector.”
Fergal groaned and heaved himself out of the chair. “I’ll be needin’ some air,” he said as he left the room, coughing a little.
“I do hope you’ll accept the offer,” Abby said. “And not just because you’re very smart and very good with contracts.”
“What other reasons would there be?”
Abby raised an eyebrow. “I rather like it when you’re around.”
A storm of sparks raced down Astral’s back.
“And now, I really must go.” Abby sounded reluctant.
“I’ll see you Monday, then.”
Abby stared at her for a moment, then smiled. She turned to go but stopped at the door. “And, Ms Projector, Erigone is correct. You definitely don’t need to worry about whether you’re a good kisser or not. But I’ll leave any further discussions with me about such things entirely to you, and at your discretion.”
Astral flushed but Abby was already in the hallway. “Don’t forget your princess,” she called after her as she stood in the doorway, anxious for the daughter of Hades to return to wherever she needed to go.
“Ping will return and collect her in a few hours,” Abby said. Fergal stood nearby, looking a little less compromised. “I’m not going to disturb her. Somehow, I don’t think that would be wise. I’ll see you Monday.”
“Hey,” Astral said, but Abby and Fergal were gone. They simply disappeared. “What about that rabble in my barn?” she finished to an empty hallway. Silence. With a deep sigh, she took another gulp of whiskey.
*
There came a firm rat-a-tat at the front door.
“Two thirty in the morning.” Keeva looked at the clock. “Are you expecting anyone?”
Astral shrugged, too cosy in her seat by the fire to care. “The loss adjustor, I suppose.”
“Go see who it is,” Dulcie told Damián.
“Why is it always me who has to do everything?”
“Because you’re the busboy. Plus, I think you do far from everything around here,” she told him.
“I’m not moving. I’ll disturb Borage.” Astral gently stroked the sleeping ball of fur on her lap. She was still in awe of her new gift, for that’s how she saw him.
“What did your last busboy die of?” Damián asked, lurching from his chair.
“Back chat.” Dulcie pointed at the door that was rat-a-tatting even louder, as if the caller had no patience. Damián flounced off to answer it.
He soon returned. “It’s a Miss Vawr,” he announced.
“Vawr?” Astral frowned and glanced over at Dulcie and Keeva. They shook their heads.
“Never heard of her,” Dulcie said.
“Oh, I think you may have heard of me. I’d be disappointed if otherwise.” A stranger stood directly behind Damián. She was statuesque and darkly sinister, with an angular build much like Abby Black’s, except this woman had a pasty, ghostly complexion, and her eyes were the palest blue, and cold, like slivers from a glacier. Jet black hair framed high Slavic cheekbones. She had a generous, well-shaped mouth, and her thick accent identified her as probably eastern European.
“I’m sorry Ms…Vawr.” Astral stumbled over the unfamiliar name. “Are you the loss adjustor?”
“Not Vawr, Vawr,” the stranger corrected with some belligerence. “And Miss, not Ms.”
“Vawr,” Astral repeated. “Miss Vawr.”
“Um, how can we help you?” Dulcie asked.
“I come for the witches in the barn and the poodle in the kitchen.”
“What poodle?” Keeva asked, suddenly interested.
“The banshee Iraldine is currently a poodle. She must be restored and taken away,” Miss Vawr said. “My people will do this and then we go.” She clicked her fingers and several ghostly hellhounds, heads lowered and their tails between their legs, wafted through the hall past the parlour door and into the kitchen. Everyone sat bolt upright as the hounds passed.
“Those are hellhounds,” Dulcie said, stating the obvious. Damián moved behind the couch, as far away from the door as possible.
“Correction,” Miss Vawr objected, “those are dogs of Vawr.”
“Vawr,” Dulcie repeated. “Oh, war. You’re War, aren’t you? You’re Ms Blacker from Black and Blacker.”
“Indeed.” Miss Vawr seemed very satisfied at being finally acknowledged. “I am Vawr and you have met my colleague, Death. She speaks very highly of you.” Her dogs were back, slinking their way out. “I have been informed the witches are free to go from the barn. The contract is complete, so please tell them all to go away now, I do not need extra paperwork.” She produced a thick form and presented it to Astral. “Sign this.”
“Why?” Astral reluctantly accepted the offered pen, carved out of bone and ominously heavy. “I don’t think—”
“Kitchen and house all clean, poodle gone, witches gone, all done.” She nudged Astral’s elbow to get on with signing.
Reluctantly, Astral began to scratch out her name, feeling suspiciously duped. Her head felt heavy whether from the whiskey or the dulling sensation Miss Vawr seemed to exude. The first line of her initial came out as a red blot. “Ick, this is blood, not ink.” Suddenly alert, Astral pushed the pen and paper back. What was she doing, signing something she hadn’t read?
“Everything is signed in blood,” Miss Vawr said. “It’s not like it’s your blood.”
“Don’t sign anything, Astral,” Dulcie told her. Miss Vawr turned her fierce frown upon her, but Dulcie forged on regardless. “Ms Projector is staying with me for the next few days. We’ll take a leisurely look at your papers and decide whether to sign or not.”
“Leisurely? What is this leisurely?” She looked very annoyed at the suggestion, obviously used to getting her way.
“Leave your contact details and we’ll be in touch.” Dulcie was on her feet gently shepherding Miss Vawr to the door. “Good evening, Miss War.”
“Vawr.” She sounded upset. “But I need my papers. Signed. In blood.”
“Like I said, we’ll be in touch.”
“This is highly irregular,” Miss Vawr grumped, and handed over a thick, black business card. “I took your poodle.”
“I think you’ll find she’s your pood—puddle,” Dulcie corrected, and closed the door firmly on War’s dissatisfied face. She let out a huge sigh.
“Well, I never,” she said, once she’d regained her seat by the fire and rewarded herself with a sip of malt. “What is up with that Black and Blacker crowd?”
&
nbsp; Her words were barely out when there came another loud banging on the door. They swapped glances and Damián, with a theatrical huff, heaved himself off to answer it.
“She’s back.” He re-entered the parlour with Miss Vawr on his heels.
“I forgot.” She handed over a large envelope to Astral. “This is from your mudder. It’s a list of demands.”
“My mudder?” Astral asked mystified.
“Yes, your mudder. Myriad Projector. These things you must do before handing over the princess to Death.”
“What?” Astral asked, horrified.
“Ransom demands.”
“What do you mean, ransom demands? We’re not holding the princess against her will. She’s upstairs sleeping in the linen basket.”
“No care.” Miss Vawr shrugged, unconcerned. “Your mudder says you need to do these things for her to come back.”
“What?” Dulcie snapped. “Myriad Projector is trapped somewhere and it’s a result of this stupid princess business?”
MissVawr shrugged again.
“Where is she?” Astral asked, dismayed.
“The Lord of Hades has her.” Miss Vawr seemed surprised that they didn’t know this detail. “She is his prisoner. At least when she isn’t flipping about.” Miss Vawr flickered her fingers to demonstrate some sort of butterfly effect. “Very tricky hostage situation, but…” She shrugged a third time. “She seems happy.”
And then she was gone.
“Well,” Dulcie said. “This is a fine mess.”
Astral looked first at her, then at the door, stunned. Her mother held hostage by the deity whose daughter currently slept in her linen basket?
A fine mess, indeed.
Postamble
The first threads of daylight crept over the horizon as Lancelot rode the breeze towards the farmhouse. Below him, roof tiles slid and slithered over each other slotting back into place. A ramble of ivy scrabbled slowly up the walls snuggling into windowsills and guttering, gathering the house in a welcoming blanket of green.
In the farmyard, broken railings and toppled walls, brick by brick, nail by nail, rebuilt themselves. His keen eye could see that these repairs went beyond any recent scar tissue. The entire farm was renewing itself, the release of an older, refreshed energy palpable even at this height. The one remaining chimney smoked cheerily, and the mixed scent of burning coals, witchcraft, and whiskey rose to greet him. This was a gathering of a different sort. A new coven was at work.
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