Suits me. I’ve got loads to do, and I don’t need her breathing down my neck and telling me I’m a prat. She’ll enjoy the walk home . . .
‘Thanks. See you later.’ I roll off the inside of the wall and drop into the bushes.
The chapel bell is still clanging away. At least all the termites will be safely shut away, praying like Methodists. Preston bounces and giggles. A moment later, Marvo crash-lands beside him.
‘Look,’ she says. ‘If you think I came all this way—’
And the cloaking spell kicks in. Her eyes glaze over. One shaking hand clutches her head . . . and she falls flat on her back at my feet.
Preston seems to be immune to the spell, which is encouraging: if my magic can’t knock him out, hopefully Kazia’s can’t either. He tickles Marvo’s cheek with one clawed foot. She groans and sneezes. Her eyes flutter open.
‘Not feeling too good,’ she mumbles.
I’ve lost the shark, but I don’t think it’s going anywhere so I haul Marvo to her feet. What I want to do is bundle her back over the wall and get rid of her, but I realise it isn’t going to happen. I look around: all clear. I lead her out of the bushes towards my studio. For the first few yards she’s at least trying to help, moving her legs like a swimmer. But then this stupid grin comes over her face and she goes limp on me, and I just have to drag her, the toes of her shoes leaving two grooves in the gravel.
I built the spell, so I know what to expect. At the foot of the steps I bend her over so she can throw up in the lavender. The grin has gone; she’s dripping with sweat and shivering so violently that I can barely hold her.
‘They’ve poisoned me,’ she croaks. ‘Call an ambulance.’
I haul her up the steps and manage to get the outside door open.
‘C’mon, nearly there.’
No reply. I don’t know what she’s seeing, but I’m pretty sure it’s not the stone-flagged corridor leading to my studio. I kick the outside door shut. For a moment we’re in total darkness. Then I hear sharp little barking noises and a sliver of light spills across the flagstones as my inside door swings open.
‘Say hello to Auntie Magdalena.’ Magdalena Marvell, I ask you!
I hold her up. The wolf’s head emerges from the surface of the door and gives her a long, wet lick across the cheek.
‘Where am I?’
‘My luxury residence.’
She’s got the use of her legs back, but she has to lean on my shoulder until I can dump her in the chair.
‘You need to clear this mess up,’ she mumbles as my little dog races over.
‘Haven’t had time. And it’s not that bad—’
‘When’d you get the dog?’
‘It’s not a dog. It’s an elemental.’ It looks like a Jack Russell, apart from the blue ears: not deliberate, I just wasn’t concentrating. As it scuttles past her, Marvo reaches down. ‘What’s it for?’ But before she can stroke it, she’s thrown up again all over the floor.
The dog hops around and starts cheerfully licking up the mess.
‘That’s what it’s for,’ I say. ‘The Society pissed all over the place.’
‘Ugh!’
‘Smell it—’
‘What?’
I kneel and hold out my hand. The dog licks it. I hold it up to Marvo. She sniffs suspiciously—
‘Cinnamon!’
‘It’s done the job, but it’s kinda cute, so I just drop something on the floor from time to time to keep it happy. You’re a big treat.’
The pool of vomit has almost gone.
Marvo unwinds her scarf and unbuttons her coat. She fans her face with her hand as she slumps back in the chair. ‘What’s wrong with me?’
‘Magic. I put a spell on the studio. It’s invisible.’
‘You made an entire building disappear . . .?’
‘Yup.’
She groans. The dog gives her shoe a sympathetic lick, then farts. The smell of cinnamon fills the room.
I say, ‘I’m waiting for you to tell me how clever I am. Then I’ll find something to make you feel better and you can go home.’
‘Just get on with it!’
I stick a beaker of water on a tripod over a Bunsen burner – the gas is still working, thank God. I toss in a teaspoon of brown powder. ‘Wait here,’ I say.
Outside, Preston has grabbed the shark with one foot and is trying to hop backwards on the other. I snatch the shark off him and turn to see that Marvo’s followed me out. She’s right beside the door, peering closely at the brickwork. ‘What are these?’ She’s grey in the face and shivering desperately.
‘Pearls. The red stones are jaspers – don’t pick at them, you’ll damage the spell!’
She steps back and stares open-mouthed. ‘Why an octopus?’
‘Because of the way they can change colour to camouflage themselves. It’s—’
‘Yeah, I know. A metaphor.’ She points up at a small object pinned to the lintel above the door. ‘And the leaf?’
‘It’s not a leaf, it’s gonepteryx rhamni, the common brimstone butterfly. Camouflage again.’
What I want is for her to move out of the way, so I can get the shark inside. Instead she just stands there, staring. Finally, she says, ‘So that’s how it’s done.’
‘Cool, eh?’
‘Frank, stop trying to bully me. I’m impressed, OK?’ She still hasn’t moved. ‘It’s beautiful. Sad nobody gets to see it.’
‘You can, and that’s reward enough. Can I get past?’
She stands aside, waving her hand in front of her nose. ‘I thought they all had the flu or something, the monks . . . and they’d given it to me.’ She follows me inside and closes the door. ‘You know, when I came looking for you—’
‘I told you, it’s misdirection,’ I pant. ‘It’s not that you can’t see the building, you just don’t – your brain won’t let you. But there’s termites who’ve lived here for twenty years or more . . .’ I stagger across the studio, narrowly avoiding tripping over Preston and the dog, eyeing each other up suspiciously. I drop the shark on the bench. ‘The spell has to block all those memories.’
‘Yeah.’ Marvo nods. ‘Some of them didn’t even seem to know who you were!’
I turn the Bunsen off and strain the brew into a cup. ‘Drink that. It will make you feel strong.’
She sniffs and pulls a face. ‘What’s in it?’
‘Your favourite. Bat’s blood.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Drink it.’
It’s weird, this feeling that I’m in charge here: that I’m the grown-up and she’s like this frightened kid. Obviously, she’s still feeling the shock of the cloaking spell. But watching her hands tremble as she knocks back the concoction, I can see that she’s been through it. She hasn’t got any less skinny; and with the bleach job growing out, she just looks ill.
‘Marvo, have you seen a healer?’
‘Don’t be stupid. I’m fine.’
She isn’t the only one who’s been through it. The shark is lying on the bench, stinking the place out. The dog is sitting underneath with its tongue out, catching drops of liquid as they fall, wagging its tail and farting fit to bust. The dorsal fin has bent in half, so it’s no use to me, and even the Chinese doctor at the bottom of the hill would turn his nose up at it. There’s scrapes and scratches all over the shark’s body and it’s come dangerously close to losing one eye.
As I pull open the mouth to check the teeth I ask Marvo, ‘What about your mum?’
‘She’s fine. Doesn’t remember a thing.’
‘That’s good.’
Most of the teeth are present and correct, and the gills are intact.
‘Blames me for the mess,’ Marvo grumbles.
When a demon comes for you, things usually get a bit messy.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ I ask.
‘Not to you I don’t.’ She bangs the empty cup onto the bench beside the shark. ‘What are you playing with that thing for? I thought you’d done.’
/> ‘What can I tell you? There’s a lot I can do with the parts.’
I don’t have to dismantle the shark right now. OK, so it’s pretty niffy; but I’ve put up with worse, and I could easily steal a couple of buckets of ice from the monastery kitchen . . .
But I have this idea that if I can gross Marvo out enough, she’ll go away.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A Fine Line
NO SUCH LUCK. Two hours later, I’ve got the bits of the shark that I want – the eyes, the teeth, the heart and liver – in jars, covered by a simple preservative spell. The dog’s still licking happily away at the tiles where Marvo’s thrown up again.
She’s on her feet, wandering around the studio, picking things up and sniffing them. I look up as she drops a bunch of dried hyssop and pulls her scryer out of her pocket. ‘Yes, Chief,’ she says into it.
Caxton, then.
Marvo listens. ‘Frank’s place,’ she says.
‘“What the hell are you hanging around with that skinny little freak for?”’ I mutter. ‘Right?’
Marvo turns round long enough to punch me. ‘That’s not fair, Chief.’
She listens. I assume Caxton’s giving her some friendly advice; like wise up, go home and stay away from the idiot . . .
‘I understand, Chief.’ Marvo closes her scryer and turns to me.
‘Understand what?’
‘Caxton’s handed the case over to the Society.’ The scryer goes back in her pocket.
No surprise. Still a pisser, though. I glare at Preston. ‘Well?’
‘Sorry, boss. Nothing yet.’
I’m hunting along the bench.
‘What are you looking for?’ Marvo asks.
‘The pentacle.’ The last time I remember having it was when I waved it under Preston’s nose. ‘Must’ve dropped it.’ Doesn’t really matter, and what I really need to do, anyway, is sit down and think everything through . . .
Marvo has other ideas. ‘My turn now. What about Sean?’
Oh, bloody hell. ‘Now’s not good.’
‘That’s typical of you, Frank! Promise stuff then let people down.’
‘I told you before. I’ll tell you again: Ghosts don’t run people over.’
‘You know your trouble?’
‘Yeah, I’m stuck here with you. Haven’t you got a home to go to?’
‘You think you’re this outlaw, right? A desperate character summoning demons without authorisation. Licence gone. People chasing you around the city. Make you feel important, does it?’
‘Not particularly,’ I mumble.
‘But you never question any of the crap the Society taught you. Like you swallowed it when they told you girls couldn’t be sorcerers.’ She shoves me in the chest.
‘Wrong about that, weren’t you?’
‘Go home.’
‘Not till you help me.’
‘I told you,’ Marvo says. ‘It wasn’t an accident.’
‘You sure did,’ I mutter. ‘Loudly and repeatedly. And I told you—’
‘I’m cold, by the way.’ She pulls up the collar of her coat.
‘I need the rays – I’ve been doing a lot of magic.’
Not that I’ll get much off the sun, which has barely risen over the wall of the vegetable garden. I told Preston to stay in my studio and now I’m sitting beside Marvo on the steps outside. She’s rolled a cigarette and stuck it in her face. I lean back and let the smoke drift past me. My ears are so cold it’s like they’re about to fall off, but I can feel the warmth of the sun on my head. I run my hand across the stubble. I need to shave it. Getting sloppy, Frank.
‘There were witnesses an’ everything.’
‘Who can’t have seen anything different from what Doctor Death showed us.’
‘You told me once . . . he’s been around for fifty years, Doctor Death.’
‘No, I said he has data going back that far. I’ve no idea when he was instantiated.’
‘He could be, you know . . . getting stuff scrambled.’
I shake my head.
Marvo’s frowning furiously. ‘But you said data elementals have to be maintained.’
‘That’s security elementals and it’s only coz they’re installed by private contractors and they want to keep the money flowing; so they do a quick, dirty job then come back to fix their own mistakes. I dunno who instantiated Doctor Death, but he’s solid.’
‘Sez you.’
‘He’s too important—’
‘Like that Montgolfier that crashed last week.’
‘Just an accident.’ Not true, by the way: airships don’t blow up of their own accord. ‘Same as Sean.’
Marvo puts two fingers to her lips and flicks away a shred of tobacco.
Time to change the subject. ‘Can I have a drag?’
She stares at me for a moment, then passes me the fag. The paper at the end is damp with her saliva and I feel it cold between my lips. It’s a bit, you know, yech!
‘God, that’s disgusting.’ I’m coughing fit to bust and I drop the roll-up. She picks it up and blows away specks of dirt.
‘Didn’t you know?’
I shake my head. ‘They were banned at Saint Cyprian’s. The smell messes with the magic.’
She blows smoke past me. ‘You get used to them.’
‘Should you, though?’
She gets to her feet. ‘Why don’t you ask your boss?’
‘About smoking?’
I’m taking the piss, but she doesn’t get it. ‘No.’ She jabs her elbow into me. ‘About Sean, you idiot.’
I sigh. ‘What would Matthew know?’
‘You don’t know till you ask him.’
‘Yeah, well, I don’t want to ask him.’
‘You’ve seen him, right? You gotta let him out.’ She gets up and dusts the dirt off the back of her coat. ‘So this is fun.’
‘Huh?’
‘Working together again.’
‘We’re not working together.’
‘What are we doing, then?’
I walk up the steps to my outside door. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘There’s a fine line between being a smartarse and being an arsehole,’ Marvo says. ‘You’re a mean shit sometimes, Frank.’ She heads off along the path through the vegetable garden.
‘Not that way!’ I call after her. ‘They’ll see you—’
‘They’re too busy praying.’
True: the termites will be locked away in the chapel, wailing and gnashing their teeth.
‘And who cares, anyway?’ But she turns off into the bushes, pushing the thorns out of her way. Halfway up the wall, she turns to look down at me. ‘If you don’t do something about Sean, I swear to God . . . I’ll tell Caxton about Kazia.’ She rolls out of sight, over the top, and I hear her feet hit the ground outside.
‘She’s right, boss.’ Preston is standing in the doorway. ‘You’re dead mean.’
‘What do you know? You’re just half of an elemental and a complete waste of time.’ In my mind, I’m forming an intention.
Preston goes white. ‘Boss, you’re not gonna—’
‘Terminate you? Why not? I’m stuck in this craphole, practising magic without a licence. I’ve got everybody on my case and Marvo bleating on about her stupid brother. I’ve got you dragging round after me, getting in the way—’ I don’t exactly kick him. But I get my foot under him and sort of . . . bounce him off down the corridor. ‘Just get inside,’ I yell. ‘And stay there!’
He scuttles into the studio.
The sunlight catches the pinnacle of the chapel and turns the Montgolfier trails across the sky to gold threads. The wind has sprung up. I’m cold.
And Preston’s right: I’m being dead mean.
I don’t know what’s up with Marvo, but it’s like this stuff with her brother is eating into her brain. It’s been a year. She should’ve got over it. Took me fifteen minutes, at most, to get over my dad . . .
I’ve got this picture in my head of Marvo spilli
ng the beans to Caxton, soon as she gets into the jack shack. I’ve got enough on my plate without feeling bad about her.
But I do. Preston too. If he can’t find Kazia, it isn’t his fault: I built him, and a right mess I made of him.
I run into my studio. Preston looks up fearfully—
‘Come on, then.’ I grab my jerkin and hat.
Over the back wall, we catch up with Marvo a few streets away.
‘What?’ she says.
‘Have you still got Sean’s stuff?’
‘My mum wouldn’t chuck anything out . . .’
‘So suppose we have a look at it . . .’
‘OK.’ She actually smiles, and it’s like she’s a different person who doesn’t have this angry scowl on her face all the time. ‘Thanks, Frank.’
Wow! Is it really that simple?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A Little Angel
THE FANCY ROOF tiles on the terraced houses of the street in Littlemore are silhouetted against the sky. There’s the usual array of painful-looking spikes; and finials in the shape of horned, winged figures.
Protection against witches landing on the roof.
Outside Marvo’s mother’s house, the broken fragments of the front gate are lying around in the bushes beside the narrow path up to the front door. We duck under the ivy covering the entire face of the house. Marvo puts her finger to her lips and pushes the door.
It doesn’t open. She starts hunting through her pockets.
‘I told you I could give you a spell for that,’ I say.
‘No thanks. You’ve done enough magic.’
‘Ring the bell,’ I suggest after a bit.
‘And wake my mum up?’
‘Then let me do it.’
I’ve said it before: doors like me. It takes a couple of words and a few passes. The door opens without a murmur.
Marvo slips off her shoes, hangs up her coat and tiptoes along the narrow hallway. I unlace my boots and follow her up the stairs. The landing is dark. I can hear the faint sound of snoring from the bedroom at the front of the house. A sliver of light spills across the carpet from the room next to it. I figure it’s Marvo’s room and I can’t resist it: I push the door open.
‘Frank!’ she hisses.
Small room. Bed. Faded curtains with kittens rolling around, playing with balls of wool. A battered chest of drawers, missing one handle. I’ve only got a few seconds before Marvo whacks me one, so I step quickly across. The framed photograph shows a girl of six, if my arithmetic is right, clutching a baby in her arms and beaming proudly up at the camera.
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