Broom with a View

by Gayla Twist

  “What? Already?” Lady Wilberforce wanted to know. “It works that quickly?”

  “Well, it wasn’t instantaneous,” Vera admitted. “But she did her best, and I do feel miles better. I think I’d just like to rest my eyes for a moment. Don’t mind me. Everyone just carry on talking as if I wasn’t here.”

  “Cyril, why don’t we leave the ladies to their peace for a few minutes?” Lady Wilberforce suggested. “I think I’d like to see what’s on offer in the dining car.” Mr. Wilberforce escorted his mother out of the compartment.

  “I think I might like to take a look around too, if you don’t need me,” Violet said, making a motion to get up.

  “Sit down immediately,” Vera hissed. “You are not to leave my side. There’s no reason for you to be gallivanting around with Mortals and Vampires and the Goddess only knows who else might be travelling on this train.”

  Violet wanted to tell her aunt she was being silly, but instead she just sat down and opened her book. Sometimes there was no point in arguing with Vera.

  The gentle motion of the train quickly lulled Miss Tartlette to sleep. She fought it valiantly, snorting herself awake several times before finally succumbing to slumber. Violet propped a pillow under her aunt’s head and gently removed the elder Witch’s hat so it wouldn’t be crushed. After that, she meant to sit back down and continue reading, but she thought she might stick her head out the door for just a moment. She was pretty sure she should be able to catch a last glimpse of X fading in the distance. And then she would return to their compartment without delay.

  Violet found her way to the caboose of the train and stepped outside for the air and the view. There was Mount Drood in the distance growing smaller and smaller. The girl was just able to make out the taller towers and peaks of some of the larger buildings in X, that magical city. She felt a pang of melancholia. Her first trip abroad had not been a success in the traditional sense of viewing great works of art and experiencing unexpected cuisine, but there had been adventure of sorts, and Violet was reluctant to give it up for the sturdy boots and laundry days of England.

  There was a gentle thud nearby and the girl turned, fully expecting that someone had come out onto the observation platform to join her, but no one was there. Violet felt a little odd for a moment, a tingling of her spine like someone was watching her without her knowledge. And then there was Mr. Wilberforce sliding open the door and approaching where she stood on the platform. She remembered her aunt’s words of warning and knew she should excuse herself immediately, but it was hard to be alarmed by someone so unassuming as Cyril.

  “How is your aunt, Miss Popplewell?” he asked solicitously.

  “She’s resting her eyes,” was Violet’s reply. “I think she’ll be much better presently.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Mr. Wilberforce said. They were both quiet for a moment, gazing at Mount Drood in the distance. “Will you miss X?” he asked after a while.

  “You know, I believe I will,” she confessed. “I was just standing here feeling a little sentimental.”

  The young man pressed his advantage. “When you’re snug at home with all your friends around you, dare I ask if you’ll miss me?”

  “Oh, Cyril,” she said, meaning very much to tell him that she had to return to her aunt.

  Hearing her use his given name was all the encouragement he needed. Dropping to one knee and taking her hand, Mr. Wilberforce removed his spectacles and looked up at her. “I know you’ve rejected me before, but I can’t help but believe the best chance I have at happiness is if you’ll agree to be my wife. Please say you’ll have me. I promise to do everything within my power to make our life together a success.”

  It was the removing of his eyeglasses that did the trick. The sun shone on his face, making his dark brown eyes warm and bright like polished amber. Violet meant to take her customary stance and demur, but there was something so vulnerable and open in Cyril’s face; she just couldn’t bring herself to reject him. Her refusal caught in her throat and, much to her own surprise, Miss Violet Popplewell found herself agreeing to take the hand of Mr. Cyril Wilberforce. “Yes, Cyril,” she said in a barely audible voice. It was like the words had a life of their own, taking shape her in mouth and springing from her lips. “I will have you. I will be your wife.”

  Chapter 13: The Trouble with Eavesdropping

  The bough of a tree was not an ideal accommodation for a Vampire, but given the tree’s location, there was no place Sebastian would rather be. As long as Miss Popplewell lived within the walls of the Villa Rosetta, Mr. Du Monde would live without.

  The fact that a Vampire had taken up residence in one of the trees outside the villa’s gate had not escaped the notice of the villa’s guards. They hadn’t necessarily apprised the family of the situation, but they were aware of the Vampire and started wearing crucifixes and eating plenty of garlic, accordingly. At first there had been some discussion about updating their employer, but it was agreed that probably meant Lady Wilberforce would want them to eradicate all Vampires from the grounds , and that order was something the guards were not willing to chance receiving. It was easier, safer, just to placate the creature with a few timely offerings of a goat and hope that eventually either it would leave of its own accord or the family would return to England.

  Sebastian was very gratified to find an unattended goat staked to the base of his tree every few days. It saved him from having to hunt in the local countryside. When away from a voluntary blood supply, he tried to keep his feeding to the wild deer and game birds that he could find in the brush, but in a pinch, a few of the livestock from local farms had been known to go missing. It was much easier if a healthy goat just presented itself whenever his appetite started to intensify.

  The young Vampire spent his time trying to penetrate the walls of the villa, but Violet’s protection spell was too much for him, and all he earned for his efforts were repeated druggings by the fragrant purple flowers.

  Then there were the evenings when Violet would go for a stroll in the garden with Mr. Wilberforce before dinner. Sebastian would conceal himself behind a hedge or cloak himself in ivy just to be close to the girl. He tried to convince himself that his impulses were good and chaste, that he just wanted to protect her, but torrid dreams of her tender flesh yielding to his touch sometimes betrayed his more heroic intentions. He tried not to chastise himself too much when he had one of these drowsing fantasies; he was, after all, a Vampire.

  Sebastian had heard the second proposal on the veranda and, much to his shame, his first impulse was to rip away Mr. Wilberforce’s very starched collar and tear out his throat. He fought the urge and was gratified to hear Miss Popplewell demur the request of her hand. But still, who was this Mortal, a creature without one ounce of magic to his soul, to request to take in matrimony a Witch of Miss Popplewell’s caliber? It made Sebastian’s blood boil. He redoubled his efforts to enter the villa and earned several good naps for his troubles.

  One morning, the packing of trunks and loading of carriages drew Sebastian’s attention. A sunny morning is a very uncomfortable time for the undead. It can even prove fatal with sudden or prolonged exposure. But Sebastian ignored the voice of his father echoing in his head, urging him to seek shade and take care of himself. Instead, he followed the travellers, heedless of several young farmhands who spied the Vampire darting through the sky in pursuit of the pumpkin carriage and ran screaming into the nearest barn.

  The gentle thud Violet had heard when she first stood on the viewing platform of the train bound for the ferry that would take her to England was indeed someone joining her, but not the least in a way that she expected. It was Sebastian alighting on the roof of the caboose, keenly aware that Miss Popplewell had sensed his presence.

  Hearing Violet politely reject Cyril on the veranda had comforted the Vampire. He trusted that no matter how many times the puny Mortal might embarrass himself with his silly overtures, she would always have the good sense to say no. I
t came as quite a shock to hear the lovely girl say, “Yes, Cyril. I will have you. I will be your wife.” In fact, he was so surprised, he fell off the train.

  “My dear boy, here you are at last,” the Count Du Monde said as his son entered their quarters at the Pensione Belladonna a bit more than an hour later. “I quite despaired of you. I wish you would send word more frequently. There’s only so long a fellow my age can fill his days studying frescos and browsing through trinket shops. Are we done, then, for this visit? Are we ready to head for home?”

  “I’m sorry, father, but I can’t return with you to England.” It took some effort for Sebastian to choke out even those few words.

  “The Devil you say; whatever is the matter? You look positively gutted,” the old Vampire said, noting the excessive gloom oppressing his son’s countenance.

  “I’ve heard the rattle of the sabre and the call of the drum,” Sebastian lied. “I know there is still fighting in the east. I leave you now to enlist,” he said, stuffing an armful of clothes into a small haversack.

  “Enlist?” his father exclaimed, incredulous and clutching at his chest where his heart used to beat. “But you can’t. The war is nearly over. They won’t have you.”

  “Of course, they’ll have me. Enlisting is for the foolhardy, and that’s what I’ve been.” He strode to the window and flung open the shutters. “If I have any luck, I’ll die in battle.”

  “Sebastian, wait!” the old man called, but it was too late; with a flap of fabric and a flutter of wings, his son was gone. “Can you at least tell me why?” the Count Du Monde asked the empty midmorning sky.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  Corporal Sonny Popplewell had taken great care to send his mother detailed information about his position in the Witch Army as a supply clerk. He sent her numerous letters spelling out the boring and mundane days of acquisition and dispersion. It was just the kind of thing a mother liked to read to set her worried mind to rest.

  If Mrs. Popplewell had known the truth of her son’s position in the military, she would have never had another good night’s sleep. Sonny was a forward scout, the sort of fellow who snuck deep into hostile territory and ferreted out where the enemy lay.

  As a rule, Sonny preferred working solo or with another scout whom he trusted. What he did not enjoy was the position he was currently in, deep in enemy territory converging on an area with a large group of untested Crafters, wands drawn and nerves frayed.

  Through a series of spies, Witch Army Intelligence had gathered information about a Vampire stronghold, a mighty fortress concealed by magic. It must have been concealed by extremely powerful magic because Corp. Popplewell and his compatriots had spent the better part of the night observing an open field, waiting for a glimpse of the fortress. Or at least for some Vampires to appear, indicating the entrance to the undead castle. The Crafters had no luck. The field, to their knowledge, was just a field. In the hours before dawn, they sent their findings back to HQ, hoping the information would satisfy whoever was pulling the strings.

  But the intelligence they’d received of the Vampire fortress was so convincing that the Witch Generals were not to be placated. The platoon was to scour the field by hand, looking for any trace of Vampire activity. If they encountered a nest of the undead, they were to break open a glowing orb that they carried with them. It had been enchanted by a powerful Witch and was rumored to contain an actual piece of the sun. If the orb’s integrity was cracked, it would break apart with a violent blast of sunlight. The soldiers had been instructed to turn away from the blast and shield their eyes. The Crafters could be burned or potentially blinded, but any Vampire within range would be immediately incinerated.

  When the order to search the field came through, Sonny couldn’t help but remark, “If we find Vampires, are we really to attack so close to a ceasefire?” For indeed, all signs indicated that a cease of hostilities was imminent. “It seems rather ungentlemanly, don’t you think?” he asked the lieutenant in command.

  “If it were up to me,” Lieutenant Chomsky told him as he looped his wire-rimmed glasses over his ears, “we’d all be having a drink in the pub, but I’m not the one making up the rules for this war.”

  And so the corporal found himself immersed in the fleeting moments of dark just before dawn, trying to cross a field with a few dozen green troops and a glowing orb. They’d cloaked their weapon, which was about the size of a medicine ball, under a heavy canvas tarp, but even that wasn’t enough to fully eclipse the light it emitted.

  Unlike his sister, Sonny didn’t usually use a wand for Craftwork. He preferred to have his hands free. But just in case his magic failed him, Sonny did have a small crossbow strapped to his back.

  At first, some of the men were joking around a bit. They’d observed the field for most the night and felt pretty assured there were no Vampires. Sonny, who was more experienced than almost everyone in the platoon, preferred to stay alert. He did love a good laugh but not when his life was potentially on the line, and as long as he was on a mission for the Craft, he felt his life was always on the line.

  Then the mist started rolling in, at first just dusting their ankles. An early morning mist is not an uncommon thing in Eastern Europe until the heat of the day can burn it off, but it did make the field a bit more eerie. Most of the men grew silent, although some grew louder, trying through bravado to prove their nerves weren’t starting to rattle.

  A low wailing began. It could have easily been the wind whistling through the trees how it sometimes does—except there was no wind. “What the bleeding hell is that?” a Crafter somewhere off to Sonny’s left muttered.

  “Steady men,” Lieutenant Chomsky said in a low voice to Sonny’s direct right. “There’s nothing to fear here as long as we…”

  Sonny whipped his head around to see what had happened to the Lieutenant, but there was nothing to see. The man was gone. There was no trace of him. It was like he’d simply evaporated.

  Dropping to a crouch, Sonny quickly scanned the sky, which was usually the Vampires’ first line of attack. Seeing nothing, he looked to the ground. Something glinting in the grass caught his eye. There were the Lieutenant’s glasses, but they were half buried in the earth. “What the deuce,” the young man exclaimed, putting his hand on the ground and then immediately retracting it. Something had wiggled beneath his palm.

  Spreading the grass while whispering a small illumination charm, Sonny got a closer look. Fingertips. He could just make them out. And they were still connected to a hand, but the hand was buried in the ground. “Good Goddess,” he exclaimed in a husky voice. “Lieutenant Chomsky’s been buried alive.” Immediately tearing at the earth, he shouted to the men closest to him. “Help me! We have to dig! He’s still alive. His heart is still beating.”

  Two men fell to their knees and tore at the ground. Sonny racked his brain for an unearthing spell. There had to be one. He was sure there was something his mother would use when working in the garden. “An unearthing charm,” he shouted. “Who knows an unearthing charm?”

  “I’ve got one,” a soldier said, running forwards.

  Sonny was so intent on digging that he didn’t even look up at the man’s face; he only saw his boots. “Well, use it, damn you! Use it now!”

  But before the soldier could utter a word, a claw-like hand burst from the soil, wrapped around the man’s ankle, and dragged him into the ground. Sonny froze for a second, staring at the spot where the soldier had just been.

  “It’s underground!” he shouted. “The fortress is underground!”

  At that moment, several hands burst through the earth and dragged half a dozen Crafters to their doom. Some men fell to their knees to try to help their fellow soldiers; others panicked and fled the field.

  “Stick together,” Sonny shouted to the men surrounding him. He quickly forged a protection spell, but it was a sloppy bit of Crafting, and he knew it wouldn’t last long. “Form a circle,” he ordered. By rank, he wasn’t actually the n
ext person in line to lead the platoon, but no one else was taking command of the situation. “We’re going to do a summoning spell.”

  “For what?” a frightened Crafter asked, just barely able to keep from bolting for the forest.

  “Earthquake,” was Sonny’s reply. “We’re going to summon an earthquake and bust this damn Vampire fortress wide open.”

  “We’re not powerful enough for that,” the scared soldier insisted. “That’s Sorcerer stuff.”

  “Yes, we are,” Sonny insisted. “If we Craft together, we can do it.” His argument was weakened by the frightened soldier being sucked down into the earth. “Come on, men,” Sonny bellowed. “It’s our only chance.”

  Thirteen Crafters would have been ideal for the spell, but there weren’t that many men left on the field. They would have to make do with what they had. “Form a circle,” Sonny ordered. “If you use a wand, have it ready.”

  The Crafters held strong and focused on their task, even as the two men in charge of safeguarding the orb disappeared into the soil. Only seven of them left, but seven was enough. When the ground began to swell beneath their feet, Sonny knew their summoning was working. The earth began to convulse like the deck of a ship during a storm. “Hold fast,” Sonny tried to tell the other soldiers, even though he himself was having trouble sticking to the spell. “It’s working.”

  The ground dropped out from beneath his feet, and Sonny found himself falling as dirt rained down all around him. He sputtered out a quick protection spell to cushion his fall as the floor of the cavern into which he tumbled raced up to meet him. The other men were falling too, and he hoped he’d cast a spell wide enough to aid anyone who hadn’t had the presence of mind to think about their landing.

  The cavern they’d unearthed was enormous, and hundreds of Vampire eyes glowed in the fading black, watching the Witches tumble. “Not good,” Corp. Popplewell thought to himself as he bounced lightly off the floor and landed on his feet, simultaneously reaching for his crossbow. The odds were easily a hundred to one.