Part 17 (1/2)

”Of course: what did you expect?” Inwardly, Will prayed to a G.o.d Whose existence he had always doubted that Fern had already left. ”We used your spies to decoy you here so Fern could have a look around your country home. If you hurry, you might just be able to join her for breakfast.”

”If Morcadis is at Wrokeby,” Morgus was suddenly silken, ”I will eat eat her for breakfast-cold. Do you really imagine I leave my house unguarded? Even now she must be the main course at dinner, all warm and sweet and tender. I will send you a morsel, if there is anything left-a knucklebone, or a finger-then you can bury it. But there may not be much to send; my pet is always starving. her for breakfast-cold. Do you really imagine I leave my house unguarded? Even now she must be the main course at dinner, all warm and sweet and tender. I will send you a morsel, if there is anything left-a knucklebone, or a finger-then you can bury it. But there may not be much to send; my pet is always starving.

”As for you-” to Gaynor ”-you are almost too pathetic to kill. But not quite.” Her grip tightened again, slowly. Her mouth smiled.

Gaynor thought: This is it. Her agonized gaze swiveled toward Will, because she had no voice to say good-bye.

And then somehow Morgus's grip failed, and Gaynor slid to the ground, half fainting, coughing and gulping air. Will's arm was around her, and Ragginbone was lifting her head, but Morgus-Morgus was doubled over, heaving, greenish vomit spattering the floor. When the paroxysm had pa.s.sed she tried to straighten up, supporting herself against the wall; but she could barely stand. As the ball of wereglow faded they saw her face was gray. ”What has she done?” she croaked. ”Morcadis . . . what has she done to me what has she done to me?”

No one offered any answer. Ragginbone found the light switch, clicking it up and down, and the electricity came on again. Will thought it was like that moment in a dream when you think you have woken up, and everything is normal again, and then you look around and all the trappings of nightmare are still with you. Morgus's very lips were ashen, but her vocal cords at least seemed to be regaining strength. She called out: ”Nehemet! Bring Hodgekiss!” The cat came pouring down the stairs, noiseless as a ripple, her shadow-blotched skin and basilisk stare more monstrous than feline. The driver followed. He was burly of stature, heavy muscled, accustomed to chauffering the so-called Mrs. Mordaunt, asking no questions, being overpaid for extras. Possibly he had drunk of her potions. ”Don't mind me,” she told him. ”Take the girl.” He moved forward.

Will drew his knife. Light was absorbed into the blackness of the blade, returning no reflection. ”Try it.” ”Try it.”

The goblin cat hissed menacingly, but neither animal nor man advanced any farther. Then Morgus groaned, and they turned to her, the man supporting his witch, the cat following, and they mounted the stairs to the shop. The listeners below heard what was left of the front door as it clanged shut.

Moonspittle poked his head out from behind the chair. ”Has she g-gone?”

Will was hugging Gaynor. ”Are you all right?”

She nodded. Her throat felt too bruised to talk.

”That was quite a performance,” said Ragginbone. ”Not so much brave as foolhardy.”

”Insane,” said Will. He hugged her harder. ”I thought I'd lost you.”

”What happened to Morgus?” Gaynor managed in a whisper. ”Was it Fern?”

”We've no way of telling,” said Ragginbone. ”I only hope that when the witch gets back to Wrokeby, Fernanda is long gone. Whatever she's done.”

At Wrokeby, Fern, Luc, and Skuldunder were standing in the spellchamber. The goblin had rejoined them when they left the conservatory, having witnessed the previous events from the comparative safety of the doorway. He had missed little: werefolk have good darksight. ”Seems that gibbering house-goblin left a lot out,” he brooded. ”House is empty, he said. Even the spiders have gone, he said he said. Nothing about giant ones that try to eat people, oh no.”

”It wasn't native to these parts,” Fern said. ”It probably arrived after he left.”

”In a crate of bananas,” murmured Luc. His facade of sangfroid was back in place; slaying an oversized arachnid with a kitchen skewer can do a lot to restore one's self-a.s.surance. He was carrying the head in a Hermes shoulder bag they had found in Morgus's bedroom. From time to time it would vibrate as though with violent s.h.i.+vering, or thrash about, b.u.t.ting against his hip, until he slapped it back into immobility.

”Nothing about that that, either,” muttered Skuldunder.

The spellchamber was clearly empty but he entered it reluctantly, staying near the door and fading into the scenery.

”Don't disappear altogether,” said Fern. ”It's bad manners.”

”What's wrong?” Luc asked him, looking for a nook where something unpleasant might be in hiding.

”It was here that she did it,” Skuldunder said. ”She opened the abyss. You can feel the pull of it . . .”

”He means, this is a place on the edge of reality,” Fern elucidated. ”If you open a portal between this world and another-between dimensions-between present and past-even though you may close it afterward, it changes things. There is a weakening in the fabric of existence. It happened once at our house in Yorks.h.i.+re. It's never been quite the same since. Reality once broken can be mended, but if you are sensitive to atmosphere you will always be able to feel the crack.”

”And open it again?”

”Maybe. If you have the power.”

The emptiness of the room became oppressive, somehow more terrible than the menace of hidden presences that they had experienced in the conservatory. Fern conjured a ball of wereglow but it went out almost immediately, as if deprived of oxygen. By its fleeting light they saw the circle burned into the floor and the cl.u.s.tering shadows far above. Fern found herself standing within the perimeter, and she s.h.i.+vered. ”This is where the ghosts were lost,” she mused. ”All the tiny phantoms from the history of the house-the living memories that gave it its ident.i.ty-all wiped out in an instant. Others have come to take their place, but these have no past, no purpose. They are the bacteria of the spirit world, drawn to evil as to an infection. The air is choked with them: can't you sense it? They feed on the overspill from the void, and it fills them. This house will never be whole again.”

Luc said only: ”Black velvet curtains. Gratifying. I like to be right.” The head became restless, pounding at his side, until he clamped it into stillness with a hand on the bag. They left, disquieted, almost wis.h.i.+ng they had found another monster to fight.

”Now we go?” Skuldunder said hopefully. ”My spine p.r.i.c.kles. The witch is coming back.” we go?” Skuldunder said hopefully. ”My spine p.r.i.c.kles. The witch is coming back.”

”The witch is already here,” Fern reminded him. ”As for Morgus, she has a long way to come. May she be stuck in traffic.”

”Is that a spell?” Luc inquired.

”No. Wishful thinking.” They were on a gallery, dark beyond the flashlight beam; below yawned the cavern of the ballroom. ”Dibbuck said something about a prisoner in the attic. Which way?”

”He said it was a monster!” Skuldunder objected. ”Huge-hideous. An ogre . . . Haven't we had enough of monsters?”

”I need another skewer,” Luc remarked.

”Which way?”

Eventually, they found the attic stairs. Skuldunder had become increasingly jittery; Luc's manner hardened into tension. Fern's resolve acquired an edge of obsession: she spoke curtly or not at all, leading them up the stair, the flashlight clenched in her grasp. The beam stabbed the gloom ahead, unwavering, certain of its goal. Fern had stopped thinking now. She knew what she would find. She realized she had known all along, on some deep level of instinct, that he he was here somewhere. He was imprisoned, suffering, and it was her fault, because she had vowed him friends.h.i.+p and had done nothing to keep her vow. was here somewhere. He was imprisoned, suffering, and it was her fault, because she had vowed him friends.h.i.+p and had done nothing to keep her vow.

It did not matter that he was a monster.

As they entered the first of the attics they made out the gray square of a skylight, but there was no visible moon and indoors it was almost completely black. The whole house had that hollow silence of a place deserted by its genius loci: the floorboards did not trouble to creak, there were no scufflings behind the wainscoting, no soft murmurs of settling drapes or lisping drafts. But here, the quiet seemed m.u.f.fled, as if the room was lined with blankets. ”There is heavy magic here,” whispered Skuldunder, and his small voice was deadened, despite the s.p.a.ce. Fern made a werelight, only a cautious flicker of flame, but it burned green from the magical overflow. She switched off the flashlight and handed it to Luc.

He said: ”I'll lead.”

But she removed his restraining hand, crossing the second attic with the werelight trembling in front of her. At her side, Luc made a sound of disgust. ”What a stink!”

”Drains,” suggested Skuldunder. As a wild goblin, he had never figured out the mechanics of modern life.

”In the attic?”

Fern made no comment. By the next door, she halted. She could feel the spells ahead of her, a thick mesh clogging the air, impenetrable as jungle growth. She remembered the flexible screens she had woven around her friends, and realized with a sudden cold trickle down her spine how flimsy and inadequate they were. But it was too late now to do anything about it, and she tried to push her fear away, stepping forward into the last attic, ignoring the growing stench. The wereglow dimmed to a sickly corpse candle, giving little illumination. She could just distinguish a window square striped with what must be bars, and more bars, closer at hand, turning the end of the room into a jail cell. Beyond, in the corner, the darkness appeared to congeal into a shape that was humanoid but not human-a shape that might have had slumped shoulders broader than a man's, legs that terminated in the paws of a beast, twisted horns half-hidden in a matted pelt of hair. The stink of sweat and excrement was overwhelming. Fern fought down nausea.

Luc said: ”I can't see anything.”

”I can.”

She approached the bars, touched the spellnet that reinforced them. It was so potent the jolt ran through her whole body, like an electric shock. The werelight could not pa.s.s the barrier, but it showed her the rusty gleam of chains snaking across the floor, a shackled foot, a tail tuft.

She said: ”Kal.”

He did not speak, but she heard the rasp of his escaping breath and sensed that until then he had not known who his visitor was.

”What is it?” Luc demanded in a hiss. ”Do you know know this-” this-”