Nieve

by Terry Griggs

  Something swished by overhead, crying sharply. The lich-owl again. That harbinger of . . . Nieve shuddered. And then it struck her, as though the owl itself had told her: Lias was gone. Something had happened to him. Lias was gone!

  She cast around desperately, dearly hoping she was wrong, knowing she wasn’t. No idea what to do – she had to think, she mustn’t panic – she ran behind what she took to be a bush that was branching massively and palely in the dark.

  The second she crouched behind it, the bush shot out a spray of wiry branches, several of which snaked around her neck, cinching her as inescapably as a rabbit caught in a snare. She clutched at them, fighting and struggling to free herself, but this only caused the coiled branches to tighten.

  A figure, appearing out of the air like a twist of smoke, began to take shape as it advanced slowly toward her.

  He was barely visible to her, but she knew exactly who it was. Not someone she had ever wanted to see again.

  “My, how stupid of you,” observed the Weed Inspector, closing in. “As I predicted. Eh, Nieve?”

  –Twenty-Four–

  Our Mutual Fiend

  Once he spoke her name, he didn’t stop. He uttered it quietly enough, creepily enough, but as he marched her through the long halls of Bone House, taunting her, the walls themselves picked up her name and bounced it along between them until it got louder and louder: Nieve . . . . Nieve . . . . NIEVE! Her name preceded her like an announcement, echoing along corridors bleached and brittle-looking, as if the place really were made of bone.

  Nieve reached up to touch her neck, trying to assess how badly she was hurt. The coiling branches that the Weed Inspector had roughly unwound and torn off, had left painful, throbbing welts on her skin.

  “Hands at your sides.” The Weed Inspector walked behind close as a shadow, breathing dank air on her head. “Nieve.”

  Nieve . . . Nieve . . . NIEVE!!

  “Why?” she challenged. “Are you afraid I’ll hurt you?” She’d been caught so easily that she did feel stupid. And if, under the circumstances, belligerence was stupid, too, then fine, she didn’t care. She delicately probed the welts.

  The odious man (if he was a man) chuckled. “You don’t really believe all that megrim nonsense, do you, Nieve?”

  No, I don’t, she thought. But said, “You’ll see. You’ll see what I can do.” A threat that sounded as empty as her own name did echoing down the hall.

  He chuckled again, mirthlessly, and breathed more dank air on her head, but didn’t say anything more until they arrived at a huge set of double doors at the end of the hall. “You are to have the great honour of meeting Elixibyss.” This name sank with a tremor into the walls and was not repeated. “The Impress, Elixibyss. Behave. I highly recommend it.”

  The Weed Inspector opened the doors and shoved her in, then hastily closed them again. She heard the lock turn.

  As she had surmised, the woman before her was the one who had pursued her at Ferrets. She still wore the hat with the veil covering her face, although she was now dressed in a shimmering purple gown with long batwing sleeves. She sat in a blocky regal chair at one end of a long, limestone dining room table, drumming her long fingers on its dull surface, raising little puffs of dust as she did so.

  The room wasn’t well-lit by any means, but was bright enough for Nieve to see. Besides the flickering butt-ends of candles stuck in old bottles arrayed on the table and set in sconces on the wall, there were curious bluish-white lights that roved independently around the room. About the size of ping-pong balls, they wove in and around the chairs at the table and floated past the adjacent fireplace, pausing to hover over a large, covered object in the corner, a trunk possibly. Nieve watched them, fascinated. She hadn’t expected to see anything here quite so . . . .

  “Enchanting?” said Elixibyss, her voice surprisingly soft, even pleasant. None of the harshness she’d heard at Ferrets. “Don’t stare at them, my dear. Naughty spherals, they’ll mesmerize you and then the next thing you know you’ll be walking off the roof. Wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

  Nieve turned to observe her, this Impress. Which was supposed to mean what? Queen of the imps? The thick veil shrouded her face entirely, which suggested that she was a fright, a gorgon with features too alarming to expose. Still, Nieve knew she had to prepare herself for the shock of seeing her unveiled. The woman (if she was a woman) was about to dine, after all. The table was set for two, with plates and glasses and silverware, and she had a sinking feeling that one place setting was intended for her.

  She was right.

  “Take a seat, please. You are late, but as this is your first night here, I have forgiven you. There will be many nights, dear, many many nights. Do sit down.”

  Nieve took the seat indicated at the other end of the table, relieved to be situated some distance away from her. She’d been eyeing the peculiar ropey thing – some sort of bizarre jewelry? – that was slung around Elixibyss’ neck. Red as a sinew, it seemed to be alive, a skinned “thing” that twisted and writhed.

  Repulsion overcame her alarm, and she blurted, “Why do you have that wall in front of your house? With those people . . . it’s horrible! ”

  “Why, thank you. It is horrible, isn’t it. I’m so glad you like it. I do so enjoy being surrounded by people.”

  Nieve stared at her dinner plate. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her.

  “Bone china,” commented Elixibyss.

  Nieve examined the plate and sucked in her breath. The bone-handled cutlery, the freckled, skin-soft napkins, the finger bowl containing what looked like . . .

  “Marinated fingernails. A little something to nibble on if you’re nervous. I can understand how excited you must be to finally meet me . . . Nieve.”

  That voice.

  “You’re the one,” Nieve said, looking up at her quickly. The haunting and insinuating voice that had followed her when she’d been walking to Ferrets. Likewise the one that had burrowed into her head during that fog attack.

  “I am the one, yes. Absolutely the One. I’ve been calling and calling you, Nieve. Because you’re mine.”

  “I am not yours.” Trying not to be too obvious about it, she glanced aside, sizing-up the room. The double doors were the only way out, and the Weed Inspector had locked them.

  “You can’t run. Not this time, not from me. ”

  Nieve glared at her. If only she could penetrate that veil, she’d knock her out of her chair with a good blasting.

  “You have spunk,” Elixibyss observed. “I like that.”

  She continued to glare. “Did you follow us here? That was you, wasn’t it?”

  “Follow you?” Elixibyss laughed. “Life’s too short. Well, it is for some people. Perhaps it was the boogeyman. Not a very solid citizen, I’m afraid.”

  Joke all you want, thought Nieve, undeterred. “But you have Lias, you took him, I know it.”

  “Ahh, the boy. Would you like to see him?”

  “Yes,” she said, indignant. “Of course. You better not have hurt him, either.”

  “Ha, you are so delicious, my dear. So feisty, eh?” She got up and walked over to the large object in the corner near the fireplace that was covered with a black felt cloth. “On the contrary, I’m keeping him safe.” Elixibyss whipped off the cloth. “Violà! Here you see a rebellious young heart where it belongs. In a rib cage!”

  “Lias!”

  Nieve jumped up, but the Impress stopped her with a pointed finger and a command, “Sit! Did I give you permission to leave the table? I did not.”

  She sat back down, glowering.

  Lias was imprisoned in what indeed was a cage made of ribs. Ribs and all kinds of other bones. A dismantled skeleton, minus the skull, had been assembled and wired together with more of that sinewy red stuff, forming a cage about the size of a medium dog kennel. No room to stand, Lias was curled up inside, face tucked into his knees, his fiery hair flat and lifeless on his head.

  Eli
xibyss reached up and plucked a small gold box with a hinged lid off the mantel. She gave this a rough shake, an action which also seemed to make Lias shake. The contents, whatever they were, rattled around inside like dice.

  “This little piggy . . . ”she said, amused, watching Lias tremble. She rattled the box once more and tormented him a moment longer before replacing it on the mantel and tossing the cloth back over the cage. “A harmless little game,” she explained to Nieve, as she strode back to the table and resumed her seat. “The boy and I, we understand one another.”

  “Doesn’t look harmless to me,” Nieve said. “Looks vicious and cruel.”

  “No more vicious and cruel than turning someone into a glob of jam.”

  “What?”

  “I understand that my head administrator at the hospital, Murdeth, has been discovered in a sticky situation, shall we say, on the floor of his office. Completely boiled down – nothing left but jam with eyebrows! A bore, if you must know, he’ll have to be replaced. But still, wickedly funny of you, my dear. I’m so glad to see you have a sense of humour.”

  Lirk, Nieve thought, remembering the vial of acidic stuff he almost poured on her. “I didn’t have anything to do with . . . with that.”

  “Now, now, don’t fib to your darling mother.”

  “You’re not my mother!” The woman was clearly insane. Nieve realized she shouldn’t have said anything. Better to go along with her, not get her too worked up. She’d have to bide her time (assuming she had some) until she could rescue Lias . . . then together, Malcolm.

  “Oh, but I am,” Elixibyss said quietly.

  Nieve tried to hold her tongue, but failed. “My mother doesn’t trap anyone in cages, or offer fingernails to her guests to nibble on, or . . . or have moss growing on her arm. Or mould, whatever it is.” When the Impress had pointed at her earlier, the sleeve of her gown had fallen away, revealing a patch on her forearm that was greenish and weirdly furred.

  “Ah, but does she look like this?” Elixibyss promptly raised her hands and flipped the veil back to show her face.

  And Nieve, astonished, saw that it was true. It was . . . she did resemble her mother, shockingly so. The same eyes, the same nose, the same everything, including her smile.

  No, the smile wasn’t quite right. It had a wryness, a twist of cruelty in it that Sophie’s never had.

  “Let’s eat then, shall we!” Elixibyss rubbed her dead-white hands together in anticipation. “Weazen will bring our dinner presently, now that we’ve had our cozy little reunion. I’ll be dining on snake tonight, keeps one young, that’s the thing. And you, my love, will be having Gowl. You remember him, don’t you? Poor creature never quite got over that nasty turn you gave him, and I thought, well, what a shame to let him go to waste.”

  Nieve said nothing, only stared and stared. If she were the fainting type, she might have done that and gotten some relief, a respite from this horror, from her, however brief. But she wasn’t, and she didn’t.

  –Twenty-Five–

  Leftovers

  Nieve did not dine on the charred, gristly, stinking, and still-smoking lumps of Gowl that the elderly deiler servant, Weazen, dumped onto her plate from a platter that was almost as big as Weazen herself. She refused to touch anything on the table, including the water (was it water?) and sat motionless, watching Elixibyss dig into a fresh, raw python with gusto.

  “Not hungry?” Elixibyss enquired, fork aloft and waving a bloody chunk of snake in the air. “You’ll have to finish every crumb on your plate before you leave the table, you know.” She smiled. “That’s what mothers always say.”

  “Not my mother,” Nieve said, watching her closely.

  “Naturally.” The smile faltered a little. “I’m different.”

  Nieve couldn’t agree more. How had she done it, this impersonation? Some impish trick? She supposed it could be an illusion of some sort. Or theft, an identity theft that was actually physical. But what did it mean for Sophie herself? If this . . . this creature, had taken her form – and it was so very much like her, disturbingly accurate – then where and in what form was she?

  “My mother wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Nieve said.

  “Oh, flies!” Elixibyss waved a hand, the one holding the knife. “Overrated. No flavour. You’re right, I definitely wouldn’t do that.” She wound a strand of snake innards around her fork like a piece of spaghetti.

  “You have blood on your chin,” Nieve said.

  She looked up sharply at Nieve, nettled, but then cleared her throat and said, with a little laugh, “Dear me, how gauche.” Snatching up her napkin, she gave her chin a vigorous wipe. “Daughters can be so critical.”

  She wants me to believe her, Nieve thought, incredulous. They really do think I’m stupid.

  “If you’re my mother,” she said, trying to sound genuinely inquisitive, “where’s Dad, and why are we here, why aren’t we at home?”

  Elixibyss gripped her cutlery. “Questions, questions! Children ask so many questions, don’t they? Well, figure it out, Nieve. That fool Sutton isn’t your father . . . and Sophie isn’t your mother. She’s my sister. You’re not blind are you? You can see how perfectly I resemble her! The truth is you’re my child. Mine!” She paused to let this revelation sink it. “They were minding you for me.”

  “For twelve years?”

  “Time flies. I’ve been busy.” She slammed her cutlery down on the table. The knife blade quivered like a tuning fork and the fork itself spread out its tines like a hand fending off a blow. “If you must know, that meddlesome old granny of yours kept trying to stop me from fetching you.”

  Good old Gran!

  “So you’re saying Gran is your mother?” This was getting to be more incredible by the minute.

  Elixibyss made a face. “One doesn’t always get the mother one deserves.”

  Nieve made no response, only thought that somewhere, buried in this foul heap of lies, was a glimmer of truth. But what was it? Before she was born, there had been an Aunt Liz, an older sister of her mother’s, who had died, but surely not . . . .

  “The boy has been very useful in that regard. Bringing you here to me . . . oh yes, I hope you didn’t think he was actually helping you.” Elixibyss cast a sly look at the covered cage. “He’ll do anything to get at that little treasure in the gold box. Anything. ”

  “I don’t believe you.” Nieve followed her look. Not a whimper out of Lias, not a sound.

  “Plenty of time for that, if belief is your thing. You’ll see how trustworthy he is.” She turned back to Nieve, her dark eyes – Sophie’s eyes – intent. “Oh, we’ll have such fun . . . fun and games, I can promise you that. Now that everything is progressing so nicely, we’ll be free to live where we prefer. Our ancestral home here, or abroad. Yes . . . the darker it grows, the freer we’ll be.”

  “What does darkness have to do with it?”

  “Because I can’t tolerate light!” She pinched her brow with her long pale fingers. “It gives me migraines. I’m highly sensitive, as I’m sure you can tell. Sunlight hurts my eyes. And it makes everything too hot! On top of that it also makes things grow, and my dear, you simply wouldn’t believe the racket things make while they’re growing. Noise, noise, noise! Dead things are much more agreeable . . . so soothing.” The Impress reached for the candy dish that Weazen had set out before her. The dish was heaped high with what Nieve had thought were mints, but now realized were pills, a lot like the kind Sophie herself took whenever she had headaches, which, now that she thought of it, had been often.

  As Elixibyss stuffed a handful of headache pills into her mouth, Nieve slumped in her chair, all at once felled by exhaustion, hunger, dismay. And fear. That too, it twisted and coiled within her, as if she’d been the one to eat a snake. But she wasn’t going to let it show, wasn’t going to give this, whatever she was, the satisfaction.

  “My dear child, you’re tired! Time for beddy-bye. I was so looking forward to playing some games. Checkers. Crokinole
! I’m a marvel at that, a champion! Much better than you. No question, I’d slay you, blast your markers clean off the board, obliterate them, pulverize them to . . . ahem . . . but I tell you what, I’m such a softie that I’m going to let you finish Gowl tomorrow. We’ll have leftovers! You will, anyway. Weazen will show you to your room. But before you go, I have something for you. Something that will let me keep a watch over my darling girl and keep her safe. Now that I have you here, I simply can’t keep my eyes off you.”

  As Nieve mounted the wide, dusty stairs, following behind Weazen, the ring that Elixibyss had slipped onto her forefinger blinked in the dark. When she raised her right hand to look at it, she saw it radiating a sickly sulfur-infused light. Presumably the kind of light the Impress could tolerate, being a “nightborn thing,” as Lias had called her. Even shadows need some light to exist, don’t they?

  The instant she’d passed through the doors of the dining room, Nieve had tried to pull the ring off, but the band resisted, tightening as she tugged at it. The more she tugged, the more it tightened, squeezing her finger painfully until she gave up. It looked like the rings Sophie and Dunstan Warlock had been wearing, only this stone was even more lifelike, a moist eye with a dark, gold-flecked iris roving in its setting like a real eye in a socket. She was keenly aware of it as she climbed the stairs, cold and heavy on her finger.

  Although Weazen carried a candle, and some spherals from the dining room had tagged along, she still found it difficult to make out what this part of Bone House was like. It smelled fusty and slightly rotten, like a damp and mouldering basement, and she guessed from the hollow, echoing sounds their footsteps made on the stairs that the place was empty, not much in the way of furniture or carpets. There were some portraits on the wall at least, for she saw some elaborate, gilded frames as the floating spherals crisscrossed above her head. But when she stopped to look at one in passing, holding the ring up for light, she saw that the frame contained a mirror, not a painting. The ring winked coyly at its own reflection, and gave Nieve’s finger a painful pinch when she dropped her hand.