The Family Shame

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  I looked at the face, not daring to touch the body and risk breaking the preservation spell. It was Hart … I shuddered in sudden realisation, understanding - finally - why the spell I’d used to find Hart and Hound hadn’t worked. They’d been here, held prisoner until Uncle Ira could get around to dissecting them. I swallowed, again, as I tried to understand what he was doing. It was possible, I knew, to take organs from one person’s body and put them in another person’s body, but why bother? A magician capable of carrying out such a procedure could also cast spells designed to force a person’s body to regenerate itself.

  My hands were shaking. I hesitated, then slowly inched around the corpse. Was Hart alive under the spell? I didn’t think so, but I knew from class that preservation spells could keep someone in mortal stasis until they could be cured. Uncle Ira might have suspended Hart on the very edge of death, making sure that his body didn’t die until he’d extracted all usable organs from it. I hoped the poor boy wasn’t aware of time passing, if that was the case. Hart and his friend had been bullies, no better than the person I’d been last year, but they didn’t deserve to be tortured to death by a warlock …

  I staggered under the sheer enormity of the realisation. Uncle Ira was a warlock! Studying the Dark Arts and brewing experimental potions was one thing, kidnapping and dissecting helpless villagers was quite another. He might have been able to evade punishment for feeding me experimental potions, but there was no way the family would let him get away with kidnapping and torturing the locals. House Rubén was not in a good position right now, thanks to me. The Family Council would have to hammer Uncle Ira into the ground.

  Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to pick my way through the puddles of blood and peer into the next room. If anything, it was worse. Uncle Ira had been kidnapping people for a long time. Brains rested in transparent jars, floating in liquid; other organs, or what I thought were organs, were sitting in bottles, protected by preservation spells. I didn’t want to look any further, but I knew I had no choice. An entire shelf was devoted to vials of blood, each one carefully marked in Uncle Ira’s handwriting. I wasn’t at all surprised to discover that he had a vial of my blood. He must have taken it when I was unconscious. I hesitated, fighting the temptation to simply pocket it. A Potions Master would know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, precisely what was in his storeroom. He’d realise it was missing and then … and then he’d know what I’d done.

  A nasty thought struck me as I looked along the shelf, silently noting blood samples from Hart, Hound and Morag. What if Uncle Ira had taken a blood sample from Callam? It would have been easy, while he’d been using the compeller on my friend. Naked horror ran through my blood as I found the vials. Uncle Ira had taken nine whole vials of blood from Callam. I wondered, grimly, what it meant. Was Uncle Ira curious about the boy who’d befriended me or … did he think there might be something unusual about Callam? I didn’t know.

  He could have asked me while I was under the compeller, I thought, numbly. Uncle Ira was clearly carrying out research into something. But what? The booster potion didn’t seem to be the only thing he was doing. Did I tell him my suspicions?

  I peered into the next room … and almost threw up. Hound’s head was sitting on a spike, staring at me. I stared back, convinced - against all logic - that he was somehow alive and well. Uncle Ira had been doing something with him, but what? Hound’s eyes blinked slowly, his mouth opening and closing without making a sound. Was he still alive? Or was Uncle Ira performing experiments on a preserved head? I couldn’t see any expression on his face, no awareness - for better or worse - that I was there. What was Uncle Ira doing?

  Another notebook sat on a table beyond the severed head. I hesitated, then sat down on the stool and started to flick through the book. It was elaborately detailed, with a number of illustrations that made me blush; Uncle Ira had clearly studied everything written and published about the human body, then started to add his own observations. They were written in his wretched handwriting, forcing me to parse them out word by word. But, as I slowly worked my way through the book, I thought I finally started to understand what he’d been doing.

  The exact nature of magic is not well understood, Uncle Ira had written. We rely on magic for everything, yet we don’t understand how it works. Why do some people have enough magic in their little fingers to destroy a building or turn someone into something else for days - weeks, even - while others barely have the power to light a fire? What powers magic and how does it work?

  I read on, slowly putting the pieces together. Uncle Ira had realised, eventually, that magic was channelled through a spinal organ - no, a number of spinal organs. Strong magicians, he’d noted, simply had more of the organs than weak magicians. They were like muscles, apparently; one person might be born with more muscles than the next, but the weaker man could build up his strength through a program of heavy exercise or simply train himself to use what he had to offset the strong man’s advantages. There had to be limits, Uncle Ira had speculated, but so far no one seemed to have realised where they were.

  Removing the magical channeler, for want of a better term, and transplanting it into someone else’s body has proven unsuccessful, Uncle Ira had added. Furthermore, removal of the channeler results in the donor’s death. However, by using one person’s magical channeler as the basis for a potion, it is possible to enhance the drinker’s magic by a quite considerable amount. Side effects …

  I stopped, dead. The potion I’d drunk … I didn’t want to think about it, but I had no choice. Uncle Ira had dissected Hart and Hound, taken their … magical channelers … and used them to make the potions he’d given me. I felt sick. I had to fight to keep from throwing up spectacularly. A potion made with human flesh was dark. There was no doubt about it. A potion that killed the person who supplied the ingredients was unquestionably dark. And Uncle Ira had fed it to me. I swallowed, again and again. What had he done to me?

  Gritting my teeth, I skimmed through the remaining notes. Uncle Ira had carefully logged the results of each test, then modified the potion and tried again. I checked the dates and swore under my breath. Hart and Hound hadn’t been the only people to vanish over the last few decades. Uncle Ira had been kidnapping people with strong magic - or as strong as it got in Kirkhaven - and taking their magical channelers to serve as the base for his experiments. I shuddered in horror. No wonder Uncle Ira hadn’t wanted to leave. He’d been perfectly safe carrying out his experiments so far from prying eyes.

  And it must have been a shock when I was sent up here, I thought, as I closed the notebook and turned away from the animated head. The last thing he wanted was more eyes looking in his direction.

  I shuddered. Uncle Ira had given me the Dark Arts books. Had he been trying to corrupt me? I’d been told horror stories about warlocks who lured young magicians, too young to know any better, into the Dark Arts. Uncle Ira must have hoped I’d join him - or that I’d do something so stupid that I wouldn’t have a hope of going back home. Father would not have been amused if he’d learnt his daughter was experimenting with the Dark Arts - and the Family Council would have been furious. They wouldn’t have listened to anything I told them.

  And if I did join him, he’d have a willing pair of hands, I thought. Uncle Ira had only started experimenting on me when it had become clear that I was neither going to join him nor obey him. He must have thought it was worth trying to corrupt me.

  I took one last look around the room, trying not to look too closely at the head, then turned towards the door. I had to get out of here, somehow. I had to alert the Family Council … if, of course, I could get a message out. And yet … how was I going to get out of the grounds? Uncle Ira had closed the gap in the wards and the gates wouldn’t let me through … I hesitated, then took one of the vials of Callam’s blood, silently begging his forgiveness. I’d have to use it to trick the wards into thinking I was him. I hoped they weren’t smart enough to realise that Callam hadn’t gone into the groun
ds before he wanted to leave them.

  Take the necklace and trade it for a lift to Caithness, I told myself. If I was lucky, I could be halfway there before Morag or Uncle Ira realised I was gone. And then speak to the Kingsmen when you get there.

  It wasn’t a good plan, but it was all I had. I walked back through the storeroom, saw the vial of my blood and picked it up. Uncle Ira would notice it was missing, I was sure, but hopefully I would be well away before he clambered out of bed. I couldn’t leave him with any of my blood. He’d probably be able to track me using his own blood, assuming we weren’t that far apart on the family tree, but at least he wouldn’t be able to curse me at a distance. Uncle Ira would have no qualms whatsoever about using forbidden magics to shut my mouth permanently.

  I took one last look at Hart’s body, shuddered as my eyes passed over the places where Uncle Ira had dug into his flesh to reach the spine, then walked back into the workroom. The notebooks lay where I’d left them, their gory instructions open to the world. I glanced down at the recipe, silently matching the codewords to items removed from human bodies. Uncle Ira wasn’t just using the channeler, I thought. He was using blood and even raw flesh to help make the potion. He’d been right about one thing, I decided, as I read through the recipe. It really was astonishingly complex. And he seemed to think that his final version had been a success.

  I knew I should hurry back through the window and down to the grounds, but instead I walked back into the storeroom. The latest version of the potion was right in front of me, glowing faintly in a small decanter. Uncle Ira probably planned to test it on me later today. I poured a small amount into a vial, sealed the lid and placed it into my pocket. If I was stopped somewhere along the road to Caithness, the potion might make the difference between life and death. I’d just have to make sure someone reliable came with me.

  Callam, I thought. There’s no one else.

  It was a bitter thought. I didn’t want to drag him into this, not when there was more at stake than my reputation and social propriety, but I suspected it was too late. Uncle Ira knew there was something odd about him now. Who knew what Uncle Ira could do with a potential Zero to examine? Or … I shuddered, helplessly. If Callam was simply a very low-power magician, could Uncle Ira tempt him with the promise of power? I knew what I’d do if someone made me that offer. Stregheria Aguirre had made me that offer and I’d taken it without a second thought.

  And Callam’s house is the first place Uncle Ira will check, I thought, as I reached the window and wrestled it open. It was starting to drizzle, water splattering off the brickwork and falling towards the ground far below. I considered, just for a moment, trying to jump to the ground and counting on my magic to keep me alive. He will …

  The air turned cold. I twisted around, just in time to see a ghostly form reaching for me. I let out a yelp - I couldn’t help myself - and practically threw myself through the window. My fingers slipped, a moment later, and I fell … I saw the ghost, looking down at me, an instant before I cast the spell to save myself. The magic felt odd, as if it was being drained; I nearly panicked, casting and recasting the spell until I hit the ground and bounced. I looked up as I fought to gather myself, but saw nothing. The ghost was gone.

  The ghosts, I thought, as I struggled to my feet. What are they?

  It was all I could do to force myself to walk normally as I strolled around the house and down the drive. I felt cold and wet, even though the rain hadn’t really started yet, but I knew there was no time to go back to the house and look for a coat. Uncle Ira’s pet ghost might alert him to my presence or … or he might decide to get up and inspect his lab at any moment. He’d know there’d been an intruder the minute he realised the blood samples were missing. And who else could it have been?

  I’m committed now, I told myself. The gatekeeper’s cottage loomed up in front of me, looking mercifully intact. There’s no way back.

  I opened the door, took a moment to brush the rain out of my hair and then opened the hatch into the cellar. The underground section was dry, my bag lying where I’d placed it on the ground. I cast a summoning spell and drew the bag to me, checking the contents as soon as it was in my hands. Everything was there, untouched. Even the necklace hadn’t been moved. I slung the bag over my shoulder, silently kicking myself for not having thought to pack a coat, then walked out of the cottage. The gates seemed as intimidating as ever. Uncle Ira had clearly enhanced the wards over the last few days.

  This could end badly, I thought, as I drew the vial containing Callam’s blood out of my pocket and splashed some on my hand. This could end very badly indeed.

  Holding up my hand, I chanted the spell as I walked to the gates. In theory, the wards should mistake me for Callam; in practice, it depended on just how smart the wards actually were. It wasn’t easy to ward a large area with spells complex enough to do more than check a visitor against a list of authorised personages, but Uncle Ira was smart enough to do it. But would he have bothered? It would have taken days out of his work, even with Morag’s help. I knew he hadn’t asked me to help.

  The gates opened slowly, allowing me to step through. I kept walking, trying not to cringe at the increasingly aggressive spells that buzzed through the air, just waiting for a chance to snap at anyone who wasn’t supposed to be there. The feeling of being watched grew stronger, just for a moment, then faded away entirely as I made my way down the road. I let out a sigh of relief as, behind me, the gates started to close. They’d been fooled.

  Thank the ancients, I thought, feeling sweat trickling down my back. I felt free, truly free, for the first time in months. Uncle Ira would come after me, of course, but for the moment I was free. And now I have to hurry.

  I was nearly halfway to Kirkhaven when I heard horses on the road ahead of me. I hesitated, then jumped off the road and hid behind a gorse bush. It wasn’t easy to find a way to peer out without being seen, but I managed it … just in time to see a wooden carriage, pulled by a pair of horses, gallop past me. I stared after it for a long moment, then forced myself to wait before I returned to the road. There was nothing further up the road but Kirkhaven House. Whoever was driving the carriage had to be going to see Uncle Ira …

  And let’s hope it keeps him distracted, I thought, as I resumed my walk. Morag hadn’t mentioned anything about expected guests. The longer it takes for him to realise I’m gone, the more distance I can put between us.

  And I hoped, as I forced myself to walk faster, that it would be enough.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The rainfall had turned into a torrent by the time I reached Kirkhaven, drenching my clothes and making it hard to see. Mist hung in the air, cutting the visibility down so sharply that I was seriously concerned about walking into the river. The noise of falling water was so loud that I couldn’t help worrying about accidentally walking into another carriage going in the opposite direction. Uncle Ira’s guests probably didn’t know me by sight - save, perhaps, for the ones who’d met me - but they might say something anyway. And then Uncle Ira would know where I’d gone.

  But there’s nowhere else for me to go, I thought. I didn’t know how to walk cross-country, even if there wasn’t a risk of drowning myself in the bog. He knows I have to come here.

  The streets were almost empty as I made my way towards Callam’s house. Water dripped off the stone roofs and flowed into the gutters, which emptied themselves into the river. I thought I saw faces looking at me, from curtained windows, but I might have just been imagining it. Smart people would be inside now, drinking hot chocolate and enjoying the enforced break; I doubted that anyone, even the schoolchildren, would leave their homes as long as the rain was bucketing down. It was hard to believe that there might be shepherds watching the flocks in the rain. Even sheep had enough sense to come out of the rain.

  My clothes were utterly waterlogged, water running down my back in a steady stream and pooling in my boots by the time I finally reached Callam’s house. I had a moment of dou
bt as I stumbled up the driveway, wondering if it really was the right house. If I was about to tap on the wrong door … I sensed a faint ward surrounding the house, centred on a horseshoe hanging on the door. Callam’s father could easily have erected the spell. It wouldn’t have kept a real magician out, not for very long, but it would have made life harder for Hart and Hound.

  I tapped the door, hoping desperately that someone was inside. The door opened a moment later, revealing Callam’s mother. Catha’s face was full of hope, but it faded the moment she saw me. I thought, just for a moment, that she was going to turn me away before she motioned for me to enter the house. I was uneasily aware that I was dripping water on the stone floor.

  “Where’s Callam?” My teeth were chattering. It was hard to speak. “I need to see him …”

  “We don’t know,” Catha said. “He went out to get food and never came back. I thought … I hoped he’d gone up to see you.”

  I shook my head, feeling a sense of numb dismay crashing down on me. Callam was gone and that meant … I swallowed, hard, as I remembered the carriage. Callam wasn’t the type of person to abandon a job and sneak off to see a friend, no matter who she was. He would have taken the food home first. No, someone had kidnapped him … and I was sure I knew who that someone was. Uncle Ira - or someone working for Uncle Ira - had snatched Callam off the streets and taken him back to the hall.

  You could be being paranoid, I told myself. You don’t know Callam was in that carriage.

  “He doesn’t come up this early in the morning,” I told her, feeling my hair start to itch as it dried. “I … he would have knocked on the door, just to let us know he was there.”

  Catha eyed me. “Then where is he?”

  I swallowed, hard. I could tell her the truth, or what I thought was the truth, but what good would it do? Catha couldn’t help save her son. Callam’s father couldn’t help save his son. The entire village could turn up with pitchforks and torches and Uncle Ira would kill them all with a wave of his hand. I doubted the villagers would care enough to even try to rescue him from the hall. Callam was an outcast, his father barely tolerated …