Salt Magic, Skin Magic

by Lee Welch

  “Think harder. You got the first one right.”

  “That was chance.”

  “You might know more than you think.”

  “All right.” Thornby put a hand to his forehead. “Um, they found a mosaic of a bull when they moved the stables. Could it be that? A bull? I—”

  Out of the corner of his eye, John saw something coming. One of the creatures from the watching crowd was advancing. He swung around to face it, trying again to charge the ward stone, though he knew in his heart it was pointless.

  “Wait!” A note of panic entered Thornby’s voice. “Give me a chance!”

  But the creature came closer. John recognised it now, a small creature, half-hedgehog, half-human. It ignored Thornby entirely.

  “Got any more o’ them walnuts?” it said to John.

  He stared at it open-mouthed for a moment. He could feel the eyes of the watching semi-circle of creatures, intent on his every move. Walnuts? At a time like this? But he pushed a hand into his pocket and found a few pieces of broken walnut mixed with fluff and breadcrumbs. He tipped them through the glass thorns into the creature’s small clawed hand.

  “Really, Tig!” said the queen, wrinkling her beautiful nose. “He stinks of gramarye! How can you?”

  “I bean’t fussy. Walnuts is me favourites.” The creature put its other hand on the glass thorns and glanced at Thornby, beady eyes unreadable. “All right, poppet?” it said. Then it turned and went back into the crowd, crunching walnuts with its mouth open.

  “Oh,” Thornby said faintly.

  “What?” John turned to him.

  “The answer. But it can’t be. It’s just a stupid joke I have with myself.”

  “Say it. Don’t second-guess. You got the first one right.”

  “All right.” Thornby addressed the queen and the host of waiting figures. “It’s a hedgehog. I’ve always thought the Hall resembles one, because of all the chimneys and turrets.”

  Again, uproar. Worse than before.

  “So clever, so clever, so answer me this: Why can’t you leave the estate?” The queen’s eyes glittered—with malice, or with laughter, or perhaps with both?

  Thornby’s shoulders sagged. “That’s not fair.” John heard him mutter. Then Thornby stood straight again, and said loudly, “I tell you truly, I don’t know.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “I’ve told you truly. It’s as true an answer as the first two. Now we’ll go. Good day. So lovely meeting you.”

  Thornby pulled at the thorns again, and this time a huge branch broke off where the hedgehog had touched it. John kicked another and was free. The creatures were in uproar, jostling and shrieking, but at the same time hanging back, as though unsure whether the game had been won or not.

  Then the red and white-spotted dog began to slink towards them, low on its belly, teeth bared. The others fell silent, and began to inch forward as well, creeping past the queen like a dark wave. She stood still, seeming to have lost interest. Did that mean they’d won? Or that she’d let the dog and the others take them? She was humming her lilting melody again, admiring a few strands of her coppery hair. John looked over his shoulder and saw the pathway open again, his room in the distance, a beam of sunlight streaming onto the wooden floorboards and the faint salt lines of the Woden’s Eye sigil.

  Thornby was standing, unmoving, facing the host of advancing creatures. John grabbed him roughly by the arm and pulled. They ran. Then the creatures found their voices, and they were running from squeals and gibbers, from reaching hands and flailing claws. John felt teeth at his heels, snapping like a guillotine.

  They tore out of the trees into dusty midday sunshine in the guest room. John obliterated the sigil’s lines with his boots, scattering salt, the devil’s toenails flying to the corners of the room, his iron pins likewise. And the path closed with a screaming gurgle like water going down a narrow drain. A clawed hand reached for a moment out of empty air, and then that was gone, too.

  Thornby stood bent over in the centre of the room, hands on his thighs, face white, breathing hard. Their eyes met and a sudden wild ecstasy filled John. They’d escaped! They were alive. And Thornby had done it. What mettle he’d shown.

  John had used a lot of magic in that crystal thorn bush, trying to get out. He didn’t stop to consider any other consequences. He took Thornby by the shoulders and pulled him upright. They were of a height. Thornby’s eyes were the glowing grey of the sun behind cloud and his lips—

  Thornby gave him an intense look which rapidly turned glassy, and sank to his knees, face grazing John’s crotch as he did so, breath warm.

  Then he threw up on John’s boots.

  Chapter Six

  Thornby sat on the end of Blake’s bed, trying to control the impulse to keep looking over his shoulder. He felt that, at any moment, something might claw its way out of the walls. His hands were shaking and he laced his fingers together and hooked them over his knee to still them.

  Blake was kneeling on the floorboards beside an odd pattern of salt he’d laid out. He was rubbing bright blue powder onto an ordinary-looking key, which was absorbing the powder in a most unlikely way. Every so often, Blake touched the key to the salt. And although all this was hardly normal behaviour, Blake did it with such calm assurance that eventually Thornby’s knotted muscles began to relax.

  After Thornby had thrown up, Blake had taken charge. He’d brought water for them both to drink, and tidied up as efficiently as any servant. He’d offered Thornby brandy, which he hadn’t been able to face. Then Blake had gone downstairs briefly, returning with bread and cheese. Not that Thornby had been able to face that either.

  “What are you doing?” Thornby finally managed to say.

  Blake gave him an appraising glance. “Making a chimera key. Today’s Monday, so we’ve missed a night’s sleep and breakfast. I think time works differently in that other place. Your father just sat down to lunch, so while he’s out of the way, I’ll go to his rooms, use this key to get in, and look around.”

  “You think he’s got something in there that’s holding me here?”

  “Yes, a spell of some kind. His rooms, and your mother’s old rooms, are the only places in the house I haven’t looked. I’d have sworn he wasn’t using magic; he just doesn’t seem to have that kind of power. But where you’re concerned, magic doesn’t work the way I expect, so maybe I can’t sense it because it’s all aimed at you. Raskelf’s a dashed difficult place to work. There’s old magic everywhere. You’ve no idea how confusing it is. So, I need to get in there. I can tell a lot by touch once I’m in. I might find out a bit about this curse he seems to have on him, too.”

  “But can’t you just tell him to let me leave? In that magic voice?”

  “It wouldn’t work. It has to be something at least vaguely acceptable to the person. And in any case, I’ve told him he invited me here. I can’t tell him anything else until that wears off. Sorry, Thornby. Not that simple.”

  “I see.” His heart sank, but only a little. Perhaps he hadn’t really expected it to be that simple either. “Tell me, what’s gramarye? Those creatures mentioned it.”

  “It’s another word for magic. I think, for them, it means my kind of magic, human magic. Didn’t think much of it, did they?” Blake held the key up and looked at it critically, head cocked to one side. “This’ll be ready in a minute. You should get to a boundary. If I can break the spell, you’ll be free. But don’t let anyone see your face or you might have some explaining to do. She healed you; did you realise?”

  Thornby put a hand to his cheekbone. The skin was as smooth as if he’d never been hurt. He looked at the back of his left hand; that too was whole. “Just like that, eh? Imagine what she could do in a hospital.”

  “Mmm, or she’d turn everyone into toads just for the fun of it.”

  “But she let us go, didn’t she? In the end.”

  “Only because you answered the questions.”

  “That hedgeho
g thing helped us.” He noticed the rose hips drooping from his lapel, tugged them off and crushed them in his fist.

  “Thank goodness I gave it walnuts.” Blake bent over his key intently. “You know, Thornby—that place—you could have stayed. She wanted you to. Would you rather have stayed than come back and dealt with all this? Because I could probably get you back there. If you wanted.”

  “Stay there? In that place? With those things? I hope you’re joking. Didn’t you see her feet? She had goat’s hooves! And a dress that grew out of her middle!”

  “Just because things are different doesn’t mean we should fear them.” Blake looked up from his key, blue powder all over his fingertips, his expression earnest. “I know most people wouldn’t want to live there, but maybe you could belong. It’d be an escape of a kind, wouldn’t it? She liked you. I think, in their way, they’re decent enough to their lovers. I know it would be an unusual way to live, but—”

  “Mr Blake, I can tell you categorically that fairy queens are not my type. Good Lord! Going back to her? I can’t think of anything worse. I do not belong there. I’m certain of that.”

  “All right. Sorry. Just checking.”

  Blake put the key down, dusted his fingertips, and began sweeping the salt together with the side of his hand. A few grains got caught in a crack and he flicked them out with a small brush. He took an oilskin bag and began pouring handfuls of salt into it.

  Thornby noticed for the first time that Blake had a nasty-looking gash on the back of his hand, presumably from that magical thornbush. Blake might well have mysterious powers, but he was clearly not omnipotent, or impervious to hurt. If they hadn’t escaped, what would have happened to Blake? Part of him wanted to ignore the issue, as Blake seemed to be doing, but if something else happened, did he really want Blake’s blood on his conscience?

  “Mr Blake, it’s not safe for you here, is it? If Raskelf’s concealing some world where your magic doesn’t work, well—what if they catch you again?” Go on, say it. “Shouldn’t you leave?” Christ, please don’t leave. Please stay and help me.

  Blake was pressing his fingertips to the floorboards to pick up the last few grains of salt. He shrugged.

  “I don’t think it’s peculiar to Raskelf. I think there are probably gateways all over the place. I didn’t get in by chance. I know what I did.” He glanced up, eyes amused. “Don’t worry, I won’t do it again.”

  Thornby wasn’t sure the argument was entirely sound, but relief was warming him more thoroughly than Father’s fine cognac ever had. Blake pocketed his bag of salt and stood up with the key. “If you hadn’t come and answered those riddles, I’d still be there. Or dead by now. My thanks, Lord Thornby. You have a cool head under fire.”

  “Not that cool. I beg your pardon for the—unpleasantness.” Thornby gestured towards the spot where he’d thrown up, feeling a fool for his loss of control.

  Blake smiled. He had a trick of not smiling with his mouth; it was all in his eyes. They lit up, even as his mouth turned down at the corners.

  “Being sick was quite dignified, considering. When I saw my first demon, I pissed myself. I was only ten, but still. Shows your breeding, doesn’t it?”

  Thornby gaped at him. “Demons? But, but—they weren’t demons, were they?”

  “No, no. Fairies. Demons are very different. But it’s a similar feeling, I imagine.”

  “There are demons? Evil things with horns and fangs and so on?”

  “Yes, of course. Most magicians get their power that way. They call up a demon and it does the magic for them. Theurgy, it’s called.”

  “Then I saw one once,” Thornby said slowly. “Running down the Strand in broad daylight. Like a hideous baboon, oozing red as if it had been skinned alive. No one else saw it, though.” He could not suppress a shudder. A demon on the Strand. Barrelling past children, rustling ladies’ crinolines and dodging through horses’ legs.

  Blake regarded him thoughtfully. “It was probably using an invisibility spell that didn’t work on you. They don’t usually let them run around like that. It had no skin, you say? Was this in ’47?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “I remember the case. It killed its master and escaped. They tracked it down, of course, somewhere in Saffron Hill. And you saw it. Good heavens.”

  “What a horrible way to make magic.”

  “Yes, well, that’s why they keep it so quiet. But theurgy is regarded as the better way. The ‘Royal Road’ they call it. My methods are considered rather common.”

  “Common,” Thornby repeated faintly. Then he rallied. “Yes, but of course I knew that about you.” When Blake was smiling, he really looked quite approachable. Thornby took a deep breath and said, deliberately, “Luckily, I like a bit of rough.”

  It was a bit of a risk. In fact, he was surprised at how hard his heart began pounding. But Blake didn’t frown or turn away. He stood there, half smiling, accepting the tease. His dark eyes were remarkably expressive. He looked as if he’d like to stop talking and get down to business. Right now.

  Thornby’s mouth had gone dry. His pulse was roaring so loud in his ears that surely Blake would be able to hear it. So. Not a mistake, in the blue room. Mr Blake liked men, or at least, liked him. Now that was very, very interesting. He’d thought he had nothing to offer Blake, but obviously there was something that Mr Blake wanted. And he looked as though he wanted it very much indeed.

  Which was damned exciting, too. Blake had a nice mouth. Nice broad shoulders. What else nice did he have tucked away beneath that very respectable tailoring?

  Thornby looked away with an effort. After all, now was hardly the time. Not when escape from Raskelf might be just a few minutes away. He found himself gazing at the interior of Blake’s huge trunk with its hundreds of bottles and boxes and mysterious shapes. “Anyway, it’s a relief to know you haven’t got any demons in that peculiar trunk of yours,” he said.

  Blake looked at the trunk as if remembering something. “Well. But, anyway, it’s very small and well-contained. Not dangerous. You know, you’re rather pale. You should have a mouthful of that brandy before you go.”

  “No, I shall come with you.” Thornby stood, an urge to move sweeping through him.

  “Why? You should get to the boundary. If I break this spell you should get as far away as possible. That reminds me.” Blake reached into a pocket again. He seemed to have dozens; his tailor must make them for him specially. This time he pulled out a wallet, from which he took a five pound note. He held it out. “You’ll get a long way on that if you’re careful. I wouldn’t stay in England because he’ll probably come after you. That curse is driving him. I will try to stop it, though.”

  Thornby found himself staring at more of the needful than he’d seen in months. “I’m not taking your money. Good Lord, I should be paying you! I’m coming with you.”

  “But why? The whole point is to get you away from Raskelf.”

  “But it’s not only about me, is it? What if some sprite pops out and asks you where it keeps its cuff-links? I’ve no idea how I managed to answer those questions. I suppose it was luck, but I was born here, after all. And I’m heir to this crumbling monstrosity, and maybe that gives me an edge. So, of course I’m coming. And then we’ll both leave.”

  “What if someone sees your face?” But Blake was putting the money away. He seemed to have accepted that Thornby wasn’t just going to run for it.

  Thornby waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll say I met a way-faring fellow with a miraculous liniment. No one believes anything I say anyway. Even Aunt Amelia doesn’t really believe I can’t leave the estate.”

  Blake considered him for a long moment. Thornby found himself unable to look away. The expression on Blake’s face was difficult to identify—it was a searching look, as if he was trying to see something in Thornby that nobody had ever looked for before.

  Or perhaps he was just wondering if Thornby was likely to throw up on him again.

 
Then Blake smiled. Not just with his eyes this time. It was an oddly vulnerable smile that made him look a lot younger. “Come on, then. Let’s see what your father has hidden away.”

  “You’d better tell me what we’re looking for. Salt lines, is it? Piles of sand?”

  “Not necessarily. Look for anything you can’t explain. Think of your most conservative friend; if it’s not the kind of thing he’d have in his rooms, point it out to me.”

  Father’s apartments had always been locked, as had mother’s old rooms which connected to them. Even Mrs Diggins, the housekeeper, did not have keys, although Warren, Father’s valet and chief henchman, did. Apart from some dim childhood memories, Thornby’s mental map of the house had, for the last year and a half, had this blank space at its heart.

  Watching Blake put the key in the lock of father’s chamber and open the door was, well, magical.

  ***

  John went into Lord Dalton’s large, blue and gold bed-chamber. He started by asking the walls if they knew any secrets, trying to stay alert for the faintest trace of magic, however formless. He was very conscious of Thornby at his side, opening cabinet drawers and peering under the bed.

  At his side.

  With him.

  During his time at the Crystal Palace, John had fought off several attacks: the possessed bats, the insinuations of Barchiel, the pathetic shatter spell those Tory architects turned out to have paid a fortune for. The bats had nearly been the death of him. But Paxton had been relying on him, and him alone. John hadn’t expected anyone’s help. It hadn’t occurred to Paxton to offer it, nor him to ask for it. At the Institute they’d always taught independence. It was one of the pillars of discretion.

  So, when Thornby had said Of course I’m coming, it was like being given a marvellous gift, even if it was one he shouldn’t have accepted. For once, not to be alone. Being trapped in that crystal thorn-bush had frightened him more than he cared to remember. He was lucky to be alive. That was the last bloody time he would take magical advice from a pound of salt! To have someone along now who might be utterly ignorant of magical methods, but who might nonetheless be able to help if something happened—