The Tomb of the Sea Witch (Beaumont and Beasley Book 2)

by Kyle Shultz

  “Of course.” She shook her head, looking confused. “I still can’t remember exactly how that happened, to be honest. I’m usually very careful with magical artifacts. For that matter, I can’t believe Kiran stumbled on that shell in the first place.”

  “Yes,” said Cordelia, speaking up for the first time in a long while. “That is strange.” Her thoughts seemed a million miles away. She’d been oddly quiet ever since Crispin cured Molly’s voice the day before. Every so often, she would start to say something to me, but then she would look at the new streak of white in Crispin’s hair and fall silent.

  “I’ll miss you,” said Crispin softly, bending closer to her.

  “We’ll see each other again,” she replied. “I promise.”

  “Nick,” said Cordelia, “why don’t we give Crispin and Molly a minute alone with each other before we leave?”

  “Didn’t you hear what Malcolm said? If we’re not out of here by noon, he’s going to—”

  “Please,” she whispered. “I have to speak to you alone, and if we don’t do it now, I’m not sure when we’ll get the chance.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but something in her eyes stopped me. “All right,” I said. “We’ll be right back, Crispin.”

  He ignored me; all his attention was fixed on Molly. The Mythfits waved to us and began trooping back to the school. I glanced up nervously at the towers of Warrengate, fearing that at any moment Malcolm might come swooping down to chase us off with fireballs.

  Cordelia waited until we were nearly a hundred yards away from the dock before she spoke. “We need to talk about Crispin.”

  I nodded. “Yes, we do. Look, I’m sorry for getting angry about the whole pooka thing. I understand now that it was the wisest option. And at least he’s not stuck as a monster like me. I—”

  “No, Nick,” said Cordelia. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about what he did to Molly.”

  I frowned. That was a strange way of putting it. “What exactly do you mean? He healed her.”

  She shook her head. “That wasn’t healing. That was…unnatural.”

  “Well, it was magic, so…yes, I suppose it was unnatural. Is that such a bad thing?”

  “It was against the rules of magic.”

  “You told me those rules were made to be broken.”

  “At the time, I was being flippant. I’m trying to find a loophole in your curse in order to restore you. I’m not trying to tear a hole in the universe to do it.”

  “Is that what Crispin did with Molly?”

  She gazed at the distant figures of Crispin and Molly, holding hands and watching the sunrise. “Nick, he manipulated time. He made it go backward to restore Molly’s voice to a point before the Sea Witch’s spell destroyed it.”

  My ears pricked upward. “Does that mean she’s still possessed?”

  “No. I’ve checked. The Unqueen is gone, from both her and you. Crispin must have reached all the way back to before the Unqueen’s voice merged with hers. The problem is, he shouldn’t have been able to do that. No one can do that. Not even the most powerful Charmbloods in the Afterlands. And the people who have tried to do it…ended up like my father.”

  My blood ran cold. “Is that why that thing happened with his hair?”

  “Yes.”

  I tried to hide my growing concern. “Well, if oddly-colored hair is the worst thing to come of this, maybe we don’t have anything to worry about.” I spoke hopefully, but I didn’t have much confidence.

  “Possibly,” said Cordelia. “It may be that since he only played with time on a small scale—over the course of just a few days—everything will be all right. But if it should ever happen again—”

  “It won’t,” I promised her. “We’ll keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t overdo it with his powers. We can keep him safe.”

  Cordelia gave me a worrying look. “If we fail, Nick, it may be a question of keeping the world safe from him.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes.”

  I exhaled slowly. “All right. So where do we go from here?”

  “On to the next idea for breaking your curse.”

  “And the next,” I said glumly. “And the next.”

  “Don’t be discouraged, Nick. We’ll find a way to break the spell.”

  The face of the Beast from my dream arose in my memory. “Right,” I said uncertainly.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s just…” My voice trailed off. “Never mind.” I couldn’t think of a way to put my feelings into words. Somehow, after everything that had happened, talking about breaking the spell filled me with guilt.

  “I’m sorry I got you mixed up in all this,” said Cordelia. “We didn’t come here to get embroiled in a war, after all. We only came to find a cure for you. I never intended to drag you into being some sort of hero.”

  I smiled slightly. “Honestly? I didn’t mind it so much.”

  She chuckled. “That’s a good thing. Because with our luck, it’ll probably happen again. Next week, we could be fighting rogue djinni in Sharazad, or tracking down the last magic bean before someone uses it to unleash an apocalypse of giants, or—”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” I assured her, laughing. “I’m game for any of those things. So long as I’m with you, I—”

  I stopped as we looked at each other in surprise, both realizing what I had just said.

  “I…I…” My voice trailed off.

  Cordelia’s face flushed. “We…should probably be hurrying Crispin along now.”

  “Yes,” I agreed quickly. “We should. Definitely.” My cheeks burned underneath my fur. I lingered behind as Cordelia turned and headed for the dock.

  After I’d gotten turned into a monster, I’d thought my life could never get any more complicated than that.

  I was wrong.

  Epilogues

  One

  “Did it work?”

  Kiran jumped in surprise, nearly bashing his head on the intricate network of pipes and valves deep in the lower levels of the Nautilus. He swore and crawled out of the tiny space where he had been working on repairs. A figure in a long, hooded cloak was standing in the corridor, watching him.

  “Well,” he snapped, “you never actually explained what you had in mind when you gave me the harp, so I can’t answer that question.” He clutched the large spanner in his hand more tightly, ready to use it as a weapon should the need arise.

  “There was a battle, wasn’t there? Destruction? Death? General mayhem?” The woman’s sardonic laugh echoed through the ship.

  “No one was actually killed,” said Kiran. “Sorry to disappoint you. If you were hoping for all-out war between Undine and humans, I’m afraid someone managed to stop that.”

  “Of course they did,” said the woman. “They were meant to. It’s all part of the plan.”

  “I suppose there’s no point in asking what your plan is.”

  “No. Because it’s not mine, so I don’t know all the details. I presume you succeeded in convincing everyone that you simply found the harp?”

  “Yes,” said Kiran wearily. “Just like I got Lord Whitlock to believe I ‘found’ that map to the Palace of Villeneuve when I sold it to him. I’m a good liar. But I really can’t see how all of these random elements tie together into some coherent design.”

  “Neither do I,” the woman admitted. “But I’ve learned not to ask questions. The Man in White doesn’t like it. He prefers that people just do as he says instead of badgering him.”

  “I’d still like to have more details, thanks.”

  She laughed again. “You’re just the errand-boy, Kiran. Don’t get above yourself by trying to grasp things beyond your comprehension.”

  “Now, look,” Kiran snarled, “I just did this for a little money. I didn’t expect to get my brain scrambled by some ghost mermaid and almost slaughter a bunch of innocent Undine. This is getting out of hand. I don’t like the Council of Scions, but your ‘Order’
doesn’t seem any less unscrupulous. I want to know what you and your friends are really after.” He brandished the spanner. “And you’re going to tell me, or else.”

  Quick as a flash, the woman leapt toward Kiran, her limbs moving in a practiced, deadly dance. Kiran felt the weapon wrenched from his fingers, and his arm twisted painfully behind his back. The woman wrapped one arm around his neck. Then she held up a hook in front of his face, just before his eyes.

  A hook that was joined to her wrist in place of a hand.

  “Let me give you a little advice,” she hissed. “Captain to captain. Leave. Well enough. Alone. Is that clear?”

  Kiran gulped. “Quite clear…Captain.”

  “Excellent.” She released him. “I’ll let you know if the Man in White has further need of your services. ‘Ta.”

  She swept back down the corridor, her cloak billowing behind her.

  Kiran clutched the metal wall for support. “Good God,” he whispered. “What have I gotten myself into?”

  Two

  Malcolm swung the heavy door shut behind him and locked it securely. The last thing he wanted was for anything in the vaults of Warrengate to escape. There were artifacts down here that could wreak untold destruction upon the Afterlands.

  He walked slowly through the rows of securely-padlocked crates toward the newest addition to the Academy’s collection—a tall, rectangular box standing upright in the very center of the room. Heavy chains were wrapped around it, their locks fastened with powerful spells rather than keys. Malcolm stood before it for a few seconds, taking deep, slow breaths and gathering his wits.

  Then he cast a series of runes at the box—the key to the many binding spells that protected the world from its contents.

  In seconds, the chains fell away, and the lid of the box flew open. The mirror inside was enormous, its glass surface inexplicably clean of any smudge or speck of dust. Its ornate metal frame was decorated with ghoulish images of twisted, hideous faces; their mouths stretched open in screams of terror.

  “Come on,” said Malcolm, seemingly speaking to his reflection. “I know you’re in there.”

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then Malcolm’s reflection smiled—even though his own expression was still grim.

  “It’s been a long time, Malchazor,” said the man in the mirror.

  “Oh, don’t do that,” Malcolm groaned. “No theatrics, please. Take some other form. I’m not interested in having this conversation with myself. And I don’t want to talk to that desiccated-corpse face you’re so fond of using, either.”

  Mirror-Malcolm sighed. “You’re so boring,” it said, even as its form warped and blurred. The person standing in the reflected version of the vault was now a tall, eerily beautiful woman with long black hair and a face as pale as death.

  “Better?” she asked, her blood-red lips curving into a cruel smile.

  “Much,” said Malcolm. “Hello, Neva.”

  She chuckled. “I haven’t used that name in years.”

  “It rolls off the tongue better than ‘The White Queen’ or ‘Snow White the First’ or ‘Scary Mirror Woman,’” said Malcolm. “Now, I want information.”

  Neva looked pleased at this. “You know my price,” she said.

  “Of course.”

  “Why not step inside so we can discuss it?”

  “No need,” said Malcolm. “I already have your payment ready.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and retrieved a tiny square of mirror glass. The image inside was not a reflection of the room, but a scene of armies charging to battle across a charred, smoking field. They rode toward a dark shape on the horizon—a gargantuan, shadowy form writhing in the smoke.

  “My memory of the Battle of Bryllyg,” said Malcolm. “I surrender it gladly.”

  Neva pouted. “For shame, Malcolm. You can’t keep giving me your castoffs.”

  “I may not enjoy my memories of the war,” said Malcolm, “but don’t bother lying and telling me that you don’t. Even your own countless memories of those dark days aren’t enough to satisfy your bloodlust.” He threw the little square at the mirror, and it went right through, rippling the glass like the surface of a lake.

  Neva caught the square out of the air, examined it briefly, then turned it to black smoke that she inhaled through her nostrils. “What is it you want?” she asked, in a bored tone.

  “Thomas Croft,” said Malcolm. “I want to know if he’s still alive.”

  Neva’s eyes widened, and she burst into a high, mocking laugh. “Feeling guilty, Malcolm? How unlike you.”

  “Just tell me,” Malcolm hissed. “Or I’ll make sure you don’t see the light for centuries.”

  “You really think my knowledge reaches that far? All the way to the other side of the globe?”

  “I know perfectly well that it does.” He leaned closer, baring his teeth. “Now tell me what I want to know.”

  “Very well. Then know that the Scarecrow still lives.”

  Malcolm waited, but she said nothing more. He glared at her. “I don’t suppose you’d care to add any details to that?”

  “Not without further payment.”

  “No.” Malcolm raised his hand to restore the binding spells.

  “This has something to do with Lady Cordelia Beaumont, doesn’t it?”

  Malcolm hesitated.

  Neva cackled in triumph. “I knew it. I can see it in your eyes.” She leaned against the mirror frame, her eyes dancing with mockery. “You wanted to know if you really killed her boyfriend.”

  “Enough.” Malcolm waved his hand, and the lid of the box began to close.

  “Perhaps it would have been better if you had,” said Neva. The lid slammed shut, and the chains began to encircle the box, but he could still hear her voice as he walked away. “Banishment to Oz? Some would say it’s a fate worse than death.”

  “Goodbye, Neva,” said Malcolm, pulling the door of the vault shut.

  Three

  The Jabberwock’s many eyes slowly opened, taking in the familiar sight of a starless black sky overhead. He dug his claws into the obsidian sands and lifted his head, gazing out across the featureless desert. It was so dark in this place that he was unable to get a good look at himself. He knew his transformation had left him in an utterly nightmarish form, but he had no way of telling just how warped he had become.

  Nor could he remember how it had happened in the first place.

  “Ah, you’re awake,” said a voice from behind him.

  The Jabberwock turned toward the sound and saw a man sitting by a campfire. He was dressed in a long, shabby coat, and wore a ridiculously large top hat. He poked at the fire with a stick, gently coaxing its logs into a better arrangement. The flames kept changing color from blinding white to a dull red.

  “Where—” The Jabberwock’s voice came out as a hoarse gurgle. He swallowed and tried again. “Where am I?”

  The man laughed. “That’s not a question you ask in this place. There is no ‘here’ and ‘there’ in this realm. No up, no down. You’re lucky if you can find an island of stability that lasts long enough for you to get a little sleep—before the next wonderful little surprise comes along.” A wild giggle escaped him, but he managed to stop it. “Sorry. I’m mad. Mad as a hatter. I invented that expression, you know.”

  “But why am I here? What happened?”

  “I found you, not too long ago. Though time’s just as hard to measure here as distance and direction. You were in a sorry state; nearly torn to pieces by whatever brought you to this land. You were human before, but by now I’m afraid there’s nothing of the old you left.”

  The Jabberwock knew he should be horrified by this, but it was difficult to mourn the loss of a face and body he couldn’t remember. “Who are you?” he asked.

  The man grinned, his white teeth gleaming in the darkness. “Now there’s a question. I’ve got a friend who asks that all the time, of everyone he meets. Even people he’s met before. You see, his view is that you’re a
different person every second. Each new memory, each new experience changes you a little. Makes you someone slightly different. So by his reckoning, he’s meeting a new person even if he’s just having tea with his mum.” The stranger paused. “Assuming he’s got a mum; I’m not even sure of that.”

  “I—”

  “The important thing is,” the stranger continued, “I know who you are. Or rather, who you were before you came here. Lord Whitlock, the terror of Talesend.”

  The name struck a chord in the Jabberwock, but he could not say for sure that he remembered it. “Lord Whitlock,” he said slowly, trying to connect the name to something, anything, in his past.

  “Don’t worry,” the man assured him. “It’ll come to you. Everything’s going to change soon, now that the Man in White’s plans are coming together. The Warren Gate will open, and the Hollow Ones will be free once more.”

  “I remember…something,” said the Jabberwock. “I remember…a daughter. A daughter who betrayed me. And a man—a man who was a beast.”

  “Now you’re getting it,” said the stranger, stoking the fire again.

  “Revenge,” said the Jabberwock. “I remember wanting revenge.” A strange, unearthly growl rattled in his throat. “I still want it.”

  “‘Course you do. And I’m just the one to help you get it.”

  “Why?”

  “That daughter you mentioned? It seems that she’s gone and got herself mixed up with my sons.”

  The Jabberwock turned his many eyes on the strange man. “I don’t understand.”

  “You will. Once I’ve helped you remember and found a way around your, er…condition, it’ll all become clear.” He reached out and patted the Jabberwock’s neck. “Perceval Beasley, at your service. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  The Sea Witch's Lullaby

  STANZA OF STORMS

  Sleep now, my darling, rocked by the waves

  Wake not until I call thee

  Heed not the storms that rage above

  Thy bed in the silent deep

  STANZA OF SHIPWRECKS