Vengeful Vampire at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 8

by Jeannie Wycherley

  I rested my head against the wall in front of me, suddenly feeling infinitely weary.

  “We can do this,” Silvan reminded me. “Remember?” I turned my face away so that he couldn’t catch a glimpse of my despair slowly starting to build. At least up ahead the middle expanse of this side of the castle appeared devoid of the little windows. It had become tiring trying to dodge them every few metres, always fearing someone would open one and find us.

  Devoid of most windows…

  The exception was a much larger one.

  It had to have been some sort of late addition, I imagined. A balcony jutted out from the edifice, supported by solid wooden struts. As we approached it my knees quaked. This would be a tough obstacle to navigate even for me, and I had all my faculties. I trembled at the thought of trying to help Silvan through this and out the other side.

  The night stretched endlessly ahead, along with thoughts of our impending doom given the challenges we had to surmount. An enormous lump lodged in my throat.

  I mentally shook myself, annoyed that I threatened to give in to my emotions. We can do this!

  “Alright, Alf?” Silvan asked beside me, perhaps sensing the maelstrom of emotions I was fighting. I swallowed and recalibrated my thoughts.

  The night wasn’t endless. It would pass.

  A light went on in the hidden recesses of my mind.

  And when it passed the day would come. And the sun would rise. The vampires would go to bed. They had no choice. They couldn’t operate in the daylight.

  If we could bide our time until daybreak, we would get through this.

  “Madam?” Archibald’s voice cut into my excited thoughts.

  “We need to press on,” I said.

  “Madam?” Archibald insisted.

  I turned back to look at him. “What’s up?”

  He pointed into the sky and I followed the direction of his finger not seeing anything at first, but once I did I knew we had to redouble our efforts to move quickly.

  Flitting across the three-quarter disc of the moon were small jagged shapes.

  Bats.

  The vampires were extending their search outside the confines of the castle.

  I bit back a shriek.

  The bats had exited the castle high above us, probably from the roof. With any luck they wouldn’t spot us immediately, but we had to move quickly.

  “What’s the problem?” Silvan asked, looking about himself. His eyes were now so swollen, I doubted he could see much at all.

  I leaned close to him and whispered in his ear. “Bats. No messing. We have to move quickly now. Not far. Another eight metres or so. As fast as we can. Okay?”

  He nodded his assent and taking a deep breath I reached out a hand and moved my foot at the same time. The devil had me in his sights and it was time to double up my efforts.

  Roll and slap. Roll and slap. As quickly as I could. No time to think. No time to breathe.

  Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.

  I glanced at the sky. One or two bats fluttered high above us but not with any sense of alarm. We were still safe. I didn’t waste my breath to cajole the others, just kept on. Eight metres, seven metres. Six. Five. Four.

  Silvan stopped.

  I put my lips to his ear. “Not now. We have to keep going.”

  He shook his head, his breathing ragged.

  “Four metres. That’s all that’s left, Silvan. Do it for me.” I urged him on.

  His shoulders sagged and he nodded. Roll and slap. Step. Roll and slap.

  Three metres. Two.

  The balcony jutted out above my head now, the struts blocking my way just a metre further in. But we could huddle under here and be sheltered from the vagaries of the weather, and unless the bats chose to look in every nook and crevice—which was a possibility I suppose—we would be blocked from their view.

  I gripped the first strut and examined the underside of the balcony. To my surprise, I found a hollowed-out space behind it. The castle walls were thick, several metres in some cases, designed to withstand siege weapons such as a trebuchet or a mangonel.

  Whoever had decided they needed a panoramic window here had made a space larger than required.

  “There’s a kind of cave here,” I announced excitedly. My voice sounded strange now we were undercover, the wind no longer whipping my words away, but louder too. I lowered it. “We can hide out here till morning.”

  With difficulty I demonstrated to Silvan where he should go. We were cold and stiff as we climbed into the gap which normally would not have been overly difficult but had now became an almost insurmountable task. With Archibald’s encouragement, soon enough, Silvan and I were huddled together in a gap measuring around twelve feet across by six feet deep and perhaps three feet in height. The walls of the cave, as I thought of it, were rough and unfinished, and the whole place was damp, but this was the most sacred of sanctuaries and I collapsed on the cold floor with heartfelt relief.

  Silvan shivered. Now we had stopped we were going to feel the strain of our endeavours. I scooted across until I could lie next to him and wrapped my arms around him. “You’re going to be fine,” I said. “A few more hours. That’s all.”

  “Is there a plan yet?” he whispered as he clumsily enveloped me in a bear hug.

  That would still be a no.

  We lay there together, sharing body heat while the Colonel flitted in and out and round about, keeping an eye on the bats, and occasionally creeping back along the ledge to see if anyone was hanging out of the windows. Or whether they had even been opened. If I’d have thought it would have been any use, I’d have sent him to fetch help, but so few people can actually see ghosts that I figured it would probably be a waste of time.

  While we waited, Silvan drifted in and out of sleep. I welcomed his soft calm breathing and the relaxation of his body that went with it. When he awoke, he was once more wracked with the pain of his injuries, and he would become tense and quickly start to shiver. At those times I would hold him gently until he had weathered the worst and fallen into a doze once more.

  For the most part I remained alert, my ears straining for the slightest sound. My mind was a movie screen of what I might be forced to do if they found us. I could push them off the rock face—as long as we weren’t outnumbered—or I could invoke The Curse of Madb.

  Once I might have quaked at the thought of that. I’d been taught that throwing hexes out like sweeties was never a good idea, and The Curse of Madb was particularly nasty. Invoked with the right amount of intent, it could pulverise the bones of the attacker and bring about instant death.

  I’d never used it. Not even on The Mori.

  But I would do anything to get us away from Castle Iadului and get Silvan to safety.

  As if he could hear my thoughts, Silvan shivered next to me. His cloak had slipped, and I drew it together at his neck and wrapped my arms about him once more.

  “What were you thinking about?” he murmured.

  I smiled even though he couldn’t see my face here in our dark crevice. “So many things.” I stroked his back. “Mainly about the deep bubble bath I’m going to have when we get back home.”

  “Lots of suds?”

  “Suds to the ceiling. Bergamot and rose scented. One of Millicent’s specials.” I luxuriated in the thought. “With an enormous mug of hot chocolate and marshmallows and a side helping of one of Florence’s cakes.”

  “Which one though?”

  “Which cake?” I ran though Florence’s current obsessions. She tended to have fashions when it came to flavours. Hmm. Decisions, decisions. “She made a grand apricot and cardamom sponge last week, but I don’t know. Coffee and pecan is one of my current favourites.”

  “Sounds good. I’d go for ginger and coriander.”

  What? “But you’re a weirdo,” I reminded him. “I’m really not sure coriander belongs in a cake.”

  Silvan laughed softly. “I may be weird, but you love me really.”

  He quietened aga
in. I lay in the dark, listening to every painful breath he took. I was effectively alone. What were Silvan’s chances of survival? How could I get us out? I ached with something I had never acknowledged before; an emotion I did not feel I could adequately express in words. This infuriating man, with his snark and his teasing…his jibes, felt like an aspect of myself I’d tried to hide my whole life. I often imagined he could see right through to the heart of me. He understood me—the way I thought, what I felt. And yes, he looked out for me even when I imagined he was being laissez faire or flippant. He’d been there every time I’d needed him from the moment we had first met.

  Every. Single. Time.

  Whenever he departed Whittle Inn to return to his business in Tumble Town he left me feeling bereft. There was no denying he was the yin to my yan, the gears in my engine, the frosting on my cupcake.

  Quite simply he completed me.

  But the words I yearned to say out loud were now stuck in my throat. I was going to fail him, and he didn’t deserve that.

  He reached up with his broken fingers, seeking my face and finding it, as he always did. He cupped my cheek, the makeshift bandages around his fingers rough against my skin. Purely by instinct he found a tear and wiped it away with his thumb.

  “I love you, Alfie. You can do this. We can do this.”

  My heart melted. He loved me? He really loved me?

  The darkest hour is just before dawn, apparently.

  The night seemed never ending, but finally the moon had sunk low, eventually disappearing below the horizon to the west. Even so, the sun seemed to be taking forever to peek its head up in the east.

  I inched my way out towards the ledge and peered between the struts, seeking the faintest inkling of light.

  Ice had settled in my veins and the wind bit. I wondered if I would ever warm up again. My sudsy bubble bath at Whittle Inn seemed a long way away. I turned west, focusing on my inn and the fires burning in the grates, sending feelings of love to my friends and the ghosts who awaited my return.

  This yearning for home served as a useful reminder of why I needed to keep going. My fingers may have been numb, but the blood flowed through my veins with a new heat, and my heart soared with happiness. Silvan’s declaration had boosted my spirits. I might have felt like a new woman but unfortunately every muscle in my body ached and my head was giddy with tiredness.

  I sat at the edge of our hidey hole, waiting for the first rays of sunshine to creep above the forest canopy below while Silvan slept behind me, and tried to concoct a plan of action, but my mind kept wandering. Less than a week ago he and I had been playing with djinns in the garden, never imagining how quickly our lives would meet with this fresh disaster.

  “I could do with a djinn, right now,” I said aloud and then laughed. “A djinn and a gin.” I thought about Zephaniah pouring me a gin and tonic and adding a slice of lemon at home. Remembered the blissful feeling of sinking into an overstuffed chair in front of the fire to enjoy it.

  In my imagination I could see Gwyn there too… and Charity laughing with some of the guests… Finbarr leaning against the bar and asking Zephaniah to pour him a proper pint with a head, preferably of Guinness, while his pixies raced around the inn, plaguing the guests and stealing food from the kitchen.

  The thought of Finbarr’s pixies brought me back to conjuring djinns.

  “Colonel?” I whispered and he appeared beside me immediately.

  “I need you to stay here with Silvan. If he wakes up don’t allow him to move.”

  “But Madam—”

  “Not a muscle.” I wagged a finger at Archibald. “I’ll come back as soon as I can. And when I get here, I’ll have help.”

  I rolled my shoulders up and backwards and stretched out as best I could, cricking my neck, kicking my legs and shaking my feet and hands. Every part of me had locked stiffly up in the four or so hours we had been sheltering in the cave. Clambering up to the balcony would have been difficult enough under normal circumstances, but here I was, cold to the bone and with a two-hundred-foot drop behind me.

  Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  I slid out of the cave and tested my hands for stickiness. The spell held, so I dropped back down to the ledge and edged out into the open. At last I could see the first fingers of the new day finally appearing. My soul rejoiced at the sight and my blood felt a little less thin, my bones a little warmer. Prince Grigor and his nest of vengeful vampires had failed to find us, and we now had at least eight hours to get past the mortal guards and find a way to escape the castle.

  A new day brought fresh optimism.

  But I doubted we could do it on our own.

  I took a firm hold of the end strut of the balcony and, jamming my legs against the castle wall for leverage, began to scramble up the surface. Hand over hand I went, straining to climb up the wooden part of the under-balcony, until I could place one hand on the first stone lintel. The second hand followed and then it was a case of wriggling and hauling myself up with a brute strength that I’d never imagined I possessed. Once I had managed to jam a foot between the columns of the balcony, the rest was much easier. I tugged myself up until my belly was half over the low stone mantle, and then slithered down onto the floor with a plop, grazing my knees as I slipped.

  Now on terra firma I allowed myself the luxury of sitting and taking a quiet moment to shake. Just for a few seconds. My body felt floppy, a combination of the extreme effort I’d been making and fear of falling.

  But I’d done it.

  I found myself on a balcony measuring perhaps twenty feet by eight feet. The pair of large arched doors here had an incredible vista. As far as the eye could see the forest stretched out below us, early morning mist rising above the tips of the trees, reaching for a sky rapidly taking on the colours of a bruised peach.

  I stood and sucked in a lungful of morning air, grounding myself while considering my next move.

  Slipping around the edge of the balcony, trying to remain out of sight from anyone inside who might glance out, I stood to one side of the first set of doors and slowly inched my head sideways to peer inside. I could see some sort of office or library. One of the castle’s infamous permanently-burning fires lit the room. Books lined several shelves and an ornately carved desk stood in the middle of the room atop a large circular rug. A low couch and several easy chairs completed the room’s furnishings.

  Most importantly, the room was empty of people.

  Perfect.

  I tried turning the handle for the door and amazingly it swung open without fuss. I glared at the open door with distrust. Why make it that easy for me?

  But thinking about it, I realised the door had been left unlocked because none of the inhabitants of the castle would expect anyone to break in from the balcony. Only a lunatic would try to access the room the way I had. I stifled a slightly hysterical giggle, reminding myself that every moment mattered. Silvan was still there, hiding in a hole in the wall under the balcony, and I had to get him out.

  I glided inside and scanned my surroundings, beautifully clean and free of dust. A comfortable room, but it didn’t appear that much was ever done here. Apart from the books on the shelves, there wasn’t a great deal of clutter. No papers on the desk.

  A number of portraits on the wall did grab my attention, however. They reminded me of the ones I’d hung in the bar at Whittle Inn of my great-grandmother and other ancestors, and I experienced another pang of longing for quiet days at my wonky inn.

  I surveyed the paintings without a great deal of interest, until one in particular—the largest, hanging above the fireplace—called out to me. I studied it more closely, anxious to be getting on. It portrayed four men. One of them was sitting in a large carved throne-type chair, similar to the one in The Great Hall, the other three, younger, were grouped around him.

  I stepped closer to the portrait. There could be no doubt that the man in the chair was Prince Grigor. Not as ancient looking perhaps, not quite as desicc
ated.

  And the younger men? I recognised the tall one, a hand on his father’s shoulder. Dark hair, black eyes. Thaddeus.

  This was a family grouping. Grigor and his three sons. I didn’t recognise one of the young men at all, he had to be the missing eldest son, but I realised with shock that I did know the other.

  I clamped my hands to my mouth in surprise, wondering whether this meant anything or was a complete red herring.

  I waved my hand at the picture, wishing I could somehow transmit the image to London. “Don’t go anywhere,” I told it. Its sheer size meant there could be no way to remove it from the wall and take it with me. I could cut it from the frame. I pondered on this, my stomach pulsing with nerves. Every second wasted delayed me finding help for Silvan. There was no time to stand and stare at the portrait, no time to try and cut if free. I had to get a move on and put part two of my plan into effect.

  Deciding I’d return to the portrait later, I drew my wand out of my pocket and concentrated on a spot on the rug in front of the fire. Not so long ago, I’d been practising this spell with Silvan in the grounds of the inn, and I’d never managed to make it work. But maybe—just maybe—I hadn’t put my heart and soul into it. Perhaps I’d been clowning around. Silvan often said so, after all.

  Now, more than at any time, I needed this spell to work.

  Pointing with the tip of the wand, I envisaged what I wanted, and then drew all my focus into my heart and the forefront of my mind. “Parva venire magicis viventem!”

  A flash of blue light and a large puff of smoke, as fragrant as an autumn bonfire.

  I wafted the smoke away and found myself face-to-face with a creature standing maybe twenty inches tall. To all intents and purposes he resembled a small muscular human with long black hair plaited in a tight rope down his back, but his skin was blue, quite a bright blue in fact, and he wore a robe of purple.