Her lashes batted with confusion, “But you knew it would for me?”
“I did. I needed you to get me here. Willoughby carried a message from Aunt Thistle’s friends. She’s in trouble.”
He stopped near the entrance of the Thicket. “Stay here,” he order Nettle. She gave him a look that said like-hell and strode out before him. Fred scrambled to catch up.
As she approached the pair, Nettle realized they were a young man and woman, a fair bit shorter than herself and though they appeared to be only a few years older, there was something about them that suggested otherwise. They wore an outfit, leggings and tunic, of a light silvery fabric so fine and delicate Nettle wondered what it could be. It moved with them, stretching and breathing as if it were a second skin. Spider webbing? “What are they?”
“Sprites.” Fred answered.
Oddly, they seemed distantly familiar, as if she’d met them before.
The strangers, acted as though they knew her. Both shared an alarmed glance before their gaze rested back on her with recognition. They had unusual features, deep inset eyes, sharp and an unnatural blue, an overly bright aquamarine that almost seemed to glow in the moon’s light. The young man cocked his head, the jarring movement like that of a bird, and he stepped rapidly toward her. Nettle saw his feet were bare and extremely long. He stood tiptoed as he approached.
Nettle quickly stepped back and found herself flattened against her father. Her heart skittered and the hairs on her arms prickled uneasily as he came right up to her. He smelt of freshly turned earth. His nose was slender and beaklike with thick feathered eyebrows that swept upward and thinned. His cheekbones were honed and he had a small mouth with short blunt teeth.
He cocked his head at Fred, his eyebrow arched with intensity. His voice, when he spoke, sounded melodic. “What is she doing here? Tell me, you haven’t brought Bramble as well?”
“He’s at the cottage,” replied Fred, his own voice hard and Nettle detected, regretful. “I had no choice.”
Willoughby perched on the shoulder of the young woman. His claws dug into her flesh but it didn’t seem to bother her. She approached Nettle, much like the other, birdlike and alien. Their ethereal features were so much alike, they had to be siblings, twins perhaps. Her thin lips broke into a smile and she embraced Nettle with long spindly arms. “My you’ve grown, as quick as a sapling.” Like her companion, her widow-peaked hair was matted and knotted into dreadlocks and threaded throughout was a collection of leaves and feathers, moth wings, and chestnuts.
It suddenly came back to Nettle where she’d met them. Here, at the cottage. She had a vague recollection of hot summer nights, and her mother lazing on the porch with her sister and these friends, not realising she was hiding on the stairwell listening to their easy banter. Aunt Thistle’s companions, what were their names again? Lula... Rory... “The Woodstock Twins…” she exclaimed, remembering the name her mother gave them.
“Oh, she does remember us!” Lula cried, clapping her hands together.
“She shouldn’t be here,” snapped her brother. “It’s far too dangerous. Please tell me Bramble is at least safe.”
Fred’s silence spoke volumes and the young man muttered something under his breath that Nettle didn’t quite catch.
“She’s nearly of age,” her father replied in defence. “What was I supposed to do? Her mother was supposed to be the one handling this. Thistle - she’s the next best thing.”
“She shouldn’t be here. I never agreed with your decision to bind her heritage.”
Nettle tensed, casting a inquisitive look upon her father, whatever did that mean? “What’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?” Besides the strangeness of the Woodstock Twins, Rory’s distress had unnerved her. There was something else at play here.
Fred’s gaze locked with the younger man’s, ignoring Nettle. “What’s happened to Thistle?”
It was Lula who answered, her voice sweetly soft, “She sent word she needed to see us, to tell us something important she’d discovered. When she failed to meet with us, we tracked her trail, and learnt she’d been captured.”
“Who?” Her father paled and stilled. “Not Solstace Wittle?”
“No.” Rory assured quickly. “Not her. A troll. We don’t know why-”
“What do you mean a troll?” Nettle interjected. “Why would Aunt Thistle be abducted? By a troll?” Tonight was getting weirder and weirder.
Rory bobbed his head to Nettle, and shirked his shoulders. He couldn’t answer, he didn’t know. He spoke next to Fred. “We can speak more on the way.”
Lula wound her arms about Nettle again. “It gladdens my heart to see you again, young Blackthorn, so much like your father. Rest assured, we’ll take care of him, you’ll see your father again, and your aunt.” Nettle wasn’t so sure. She had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that this was the last time she would see her father.
“Come along.” Fred walked Nettle back through the opening of the Thicket. The Woodstock Twins remained on the other side.
“What’s going on Dad?”
He flicked a glance at his companions and pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose. “You heard, your aunt’s been abducted. I have to help find her.”
“Why you, Dad? Can’t someone else do it?” Nettle was really worried now. The last thing she wanted her father to do was enter the Forgotten Wilds. “Please, don’t leave us.”
Her plea squeezed his heart, and for a brief moment he wanted so much to do as she wished. But he couldn’t.
She’d braided her hair for the night and a stray lock had come free. He tucked it behind her ear. “I’m sorry Nettle, I wish I didn’t have to, but I do. I’ll be gone for a few days, three at the most. While I’m gone you’re in charge.”
“Me?” Nettle’s eyes fluttered wider and her mouth drooped unhappily. “Jazz is going to love that.”
“Jazz may be older, but you’re more resourceful and mostly reliable.”
Nettle almost smiled. Fred took her hands and gently squeezed them. “If, for some reason, I’m not back in three days time, you must take the others straight to Jazz’s parents.” He stared at her over the tops of his glasses. “Straight away Nettle. You are not, under any circumstances, to be here on All Hallows’ Eve.”
“But why?” She just didn’t understand what was so fearful about Halloween.
“Halloween is a night known for high-jinks and spooks for a reason. Here in the Forgotten Wilds… well… its…” He rubbed his chin, struggling to relay his thoughts. “It’s an extremely powerful time of year. It rouses those in the Wilds more than usual. For us, its always been a time to hunker down for the night. Even with the copse protecting the cottage, I just don’t like the idea of you kids being alone on Halloween.”
He slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small journal. It was the journal he’d been scribbling notes into when she found him in the library a few days ago. He pressed it into her hand. “I’ve written as much as I can about the Forgotten Wilds in here. While I’m away, take the time to read it, and when I get back we’ll talk more.”
Nettle poked the journal into a pocket in her parka. Her father was shrugging the backpack from his shoulders and she saw that there was something strapped to the pack - two shortswords. He unstrapped one of the swords and unsheathed it from its leather scabbard. The blade glinted coldly in the light. The sword was forged from iron, the blade sharp and elegantly curved, and the pommel bound with fish-skin. “This was your mothers. It was made for her by a friend and specifically made for our family. No one else can wield it.”
He sheathed the sword and handed it to her. Nettle blinked with astonishment. She wasn’t expecting to be given a sword of all things, by her father no-less. “Why would I need this?” The shortsword felt surprisingly light.
“I know you don’t know how to use it. I wish I’d given you a few lessons, but I never thought I’d need to. Regardless, it would make me feel better that yo
u had it.”
“You know how to use a sword?” She almost snorted, ridiculous.
In an impressive display Fred deftly swung the sword, the blade whistling as it cut through the air dangerously close to his body as he arced it back and forth either side of him, before parrying.
Nettle was stunned silent.
“Times are a little precarious for us Blackthorns’ right now. So promise me, if I’m not back in three days time, you’ll leave.”
She nodded, “OK Dad.” Her stomach roiled. What did he mean precarious?
Fred shifted uneasily. He looked suddenly old and jaded and unnerved. “I wish I’d been more open with you about your mother and our family.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I just wasn’t sure what to do, what to tell you…” Fred blew out a deep breath, he didn’t know if he was doing the right thing, but felt he had no choice. “I have to go, Nettle. In the meantime, stay at the cottage, don’t talk to strangers and do not go to Olde Town. The less people who know you’re here, the better. Promise me.”
Nettle nodded, her mind reeling and her heart breaking, but what about Claudine?
“Promise?” Fred urged.
Nettle was shaken by the desperation in his gaze. “I promise, Dad. OK.” Her voice was thin and reedy. It sounded like someone else spoke. She threw her arms around him and he pulled her in for a hug.
“I’m sorry for leaving like this. When I get back I’ll explain everything.” He kissed her forehead. “I love you kid,” he whispered, his voice breaking.
She squeezed him tighter, pressing her face into his jacket and smelling his familiar scent of wood chips. Her voice was muffled, “Love you too Dad.”
He pulled away, his warmth faded and she felt cold and anxious.
As he walked off, he turned and said, “When we have word on your aunt, we’ll send a message to you with Willoughby.” He lifted his hand to wave and his sleeve dropped slightly revealing a strange angry rash on his wrist. Raised welts, in a shape that reminded Nettle of the number thirteen.
Flanked by the Woodstock twins, he swept into the murky depth beyond the Thicket. And a moment later, he was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jazz takes Charge
For the first time since being back at the cottage, the autumn sky – an intense azure blue - was free of cloud and wind. Nettle briefly closed her eyes, basking in the sun’s warmth as it streamed in through the kitchen window, trying her best to ignore the frosty tension that radiated from Jazz who sat across from her at the dining table, scowling darkly. She sighed quietly, prying her eyes open one at a time. Her cousin, mumbling under her breath, wasn’t easy to ignore.
Jazz glared at Nettle across the dining table. “I don’t understand. Why are you in charge? I’m the oldest. Uncle Fred should have put me in charge.” Her eyes narrowed into slits and she added suspiciously, “Maybe he did, and you just don’t want to tell me.” Jazz made a movement as if to toss her red locks over her shoulder. Except, Jazz didn’t have any hair anymore. She froze as she realised why that motion hadn’t of felt quite right.
Nettle cringed and thought with dread, oh-no, here we go, and mentally braced herself. She watched her cousin’s eyes grow wider and wider in her pale pretty face, and at the same time her eyelids became narrow and angular with unabated rage. To Jazz’s credit - and Nettle’s amazement - she began to collect herself. It was like watching an overly full jug with boiling water spluttering and spitting from its spout being pulled off the stove. She very slowly drew a St. Miriam’s woollen hat out of her pocket and pulled it down tightly over her harrowing haircut and by the time she’d finished she was somewhat calm.
Nettle felt the best thing to do was to say nothing until Jazz spoke first.
The spriggan had other ideas. “Listen to yer cousin baldy. If he had, he’d of told you,” came from above. Bram had moved the bird-cage back to the warm kitchen after Claudine had left, and discovered besides creepy-crawlies the spriggan had acquired a taste for Nutella.
Jazz turned a blistering glare upon Quary. “SHUT IT, SHORTY!”
He just grinned back down at her and ran his fat tongue across the back of the teaspoon covered in a thick coating of chocolaty-hazelnut spread. He smacked his lips and let out a belch in appreciation. Jazz shot him a disgusted look while her fingers slipped beneath the hat to scratch her scalp.
Nettle gave an exaggerated sigh, wondering why her cousin had to make everything so hard. “Jazz, I’m not lying.” As soon as her father told her he wanted her in charge, she knew she was in for a whole lot of grief. There was no way Jazz was going to leave it alone.
“Yeah right,” Jazz grumbled, clearly in disagreement. She crossed her arms and glanced away moodily.
Nettle rolled her eyes and went to feed the old brass-knobbed woodstove more firewood. She tried one last time. “Dad left me in charge because I’m experienced. I look after Bram all the time. You’ve always had other people to look after you, and believe me, I wish that was the case with us, but it’s not.”
Jazz refused to acknowledge that Nettle had spoken, but at least she was silent. Nettle sat back down at the table to finish her breakfast, relieved the quarrelling had at least temporarily abated. She rubbed her itchy spine against the high-backed chair. The scratchy feeling had spread a little further, scouring her shoulder blades as if she’d lain on a patch of tiny prickles.
The silence proved short-lived. Jazz began to drum her nails upon the dining table and eyed Nettle keenly. She was thoughtfully chewing on a piece of honeyed toast. Nettle grew increasingly uncomfortably under the scrutinising gaze, wondering just what was going through her cousin’s mind. Nothing good, she surmised.
“You know,” began Jazz in a friendly enough way, watching the warm honey drip from her toast onto the table. “Mum’s going to flip when she finds out we’ve been left home… alone. Children left unsupervised…” And she tisk-tisked turning her gaze back to Nettle. “Not very responsible of Uncle Fred, is it now.”
Nettle’s mouth puckered. “Dad, hasn’t left us all alone.” It would be just like Jazz to nark on them to Aunt Mae.
Jazz pointedly looked around the kitchen, her gaze returning to settle on Nettle with a superior smirk. “Could have fooled me, I don’t see an adult around.”
“There doesn’t need to be one,” snapped Nettle. “You’re the legal age of a babysitter.”
Jazz sat up straight, smug at ensnaring Nettle in her trap. “So, you are saying I’m in charge.”
“No, I’m not,” Nettle flustered.
“Oh,” Jazz’s mouth curved downward. “I guess my parents-“
Nettle broke, heaving a defeated groan. “OK! All right! You’re in charge! Happy now?!”
Jazz perked up. She happily squiggled on her seat and when Bram appeared she even gave him a genuine smile. “Morning,” she cooed, waving her fingers at him.
Bram gave Nettle a what’s-that-all-about look. He slid onto a seat next to his sister and reached across the table for the box of muesli. “Where’s Dad?” He was wearing his fluffy blue dressing gown and yellow striped pyjamas.
Nettle didn’t like lying to Bram, but she wasn’t sure if telling him the truth was the right thing to do. I mean, how do I say Dad’s gone beyond the Thicket? Which, by the way, parted like the Red Sea - because for some unbeknownst reason it can do that for me - and then leaves with two sprites to go hunting for Aunt Thistle - who may, or may not - have been kidnapped by trolls. It was all too much, and it’d just open up more questions she didn’t know the answer to.
Jazz saved her the trouble. “Uncle Fred’s gone to look at some old thing,” she said, waving a hand in a disinterested manner. “He’s away for a couple of days, and while he’s gone, I’m in charge.” She gave Bram a menacing stare. “And you, better do, as I say.”
“Really?” Bram’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Nettle rolled her eyes with her mouth pursed – her I-don’t-agree-but-what’s-the-point-fighting look. “Oh, OK.” Bram shr
ugged and poured a bowl full of muesli.
Nettle shook her head. It never ceased to amaze her how quickly Bram acclimatised to new situations, he just rolled with the changes.
“Bessie’s still here. Did Dad take his bike?” Bram asked. His bedroom overlooked the front yard.
Nettle nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She was a terrible liar. She made a mental note to hide Dad’s bicycle before Bram found it. She fiddled with her bracelet – tarnished silver flaked off, staining her finger a silvery charcoal. It looked like it was on the cusp of snapping in two.
Bram drew over the jug of milk. “What are we supposed to do with Quary?” He and Quary had quickly arrived at a truce last night when he’d furnished the cage with a bed from Nettle’s doll-house, which suited Bram as he was tired of Quary referring to him as turdy, stink-butt or stub-nose, amongst other un-niceties.
“Flush him down the toilet,” Jazz answered sweetly.
“Oi, watch yer tongue tufty-head!” squeaked Quary, his one good eye flaring wide in fear.
Bram gave Quary a contemplative look, his glasses bobbing as he crinkled his nose. “Hey... wasn’t that eye-patch on the other eye yesterday?” The spriggan’s fat lips twisted into a scowl as he glared down at the young lad with his pitch-black eyes, but he didn’t retort.
“Come on, we can’t do that,” Nettle jollied Jazz. She rather enjoyed the thorny comments the faerie sprung upon her cousin. He was quite imaginative and she’d memorized some of the more choicer phrases for later use.
“Sure we can, it’s what that stupid talking rock deserves,” responded Jazz, giving the faerie a filthy look.
Both Bram and Nettle turned a stern gaze upon their cousin. Jazz huffed, finally relinquishing her stance. “Oh, all right,” she griped. “I won’t flush him… yet. Besides I doubt the fat lard could fit down the bowl.”
“Oi!” shouted Quary, shaking the Nutella laden teaspoon at her. “No one calls me a fat lard and gets away with it!”
“What you going to do?” Jazz taunted. “Break out of prison?”
Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters Page 17