by Funaro, Greg
If sleep came to me at all that night, it came dreamless and only for minutes at a time. And in the morning, when Mrs. Pinch summoned me for breakfast on the talkback, I quickly dressed, slipped Mack into my waistcoat, and joined the grown-ups at the dining room table, happy to be free from the prison of my thoughts.
“Expecting another demon, are we?” Father said, and he pointed to the warding stone about my neck. I hadn’t even realized I was still wearing it.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” I said. “Should I take it off?”
“Not if it makes you feel safer. In fact, I’m happy to see it finally getting some use. The demon catcher and its contents have been in storage for—What’s it been, Nigel? Four, five months since our last trip to Scotland?”
“Six, actually,” Nigel said, nibbling at his sausage. “Nasty business, that quest. Never forget it. Neither will that daft witch from what you stole—er, uh—acquired all them things.”
“Now, now, Nigel, you know very well I won the demon catcher fair and square. Besides, Mad Malmuirie was up to no good with it anyway.”
“Mad Malmuirie, sir?” I asked.
“A beautiful but deadly witch who lives in a cave along the North Sea. Stumbled upon her quite by accident, if you want to know the truth. The demon catcher was merely the price she paid for picking a fight with me.”
“You fought a lady, sir?”
“A battle of wits is more like it. Riddles, dueling spells—that sort of thing. It’ll all be second nature to you by the time we’re done with your training.”
Father winked and sliced into his sausage.
“Just be thankful your Father goes about his quests incognito,” said Mrs. Pinch. “Had Mad Malmuirie known it was Alistair Grim who took her Odditoria…Well, I shudder to think what might have happened had she tracked him back to London.”
“Who knows?” Father said, munching away. “Should Prince Nightshade pay her a visit, she may yet have her revenge.”
“Cor blimey, sir,” I said. “You don’t think that witch might’ve joined up with the prince, do you?”
“I sincerely doubt it, Grubb. Even though the old devil has managed to gather about himself quite a menagerie of Odditoria, Mad Malmuirie doesn’t strike me as the sort who’d share her power with anyone. Not willingly, that is. Come to think of it, you didn’t see any highly fetching, mentally imbalanced ladies during your captivity in Nightshade’s castle, did you?”
“Only goblins and trolls and whatnot. And all of them were quite ugly, sir.”
Father chuckled. “Well there you are, then. Nothing to worry about, see?”
I nodded, but my mind began to wander. There was something familiar in Father’s tale—something that made me think back on my dreams from the night before—but all I could see were flickering images of Mr. Smears and the banshees in the engine room. Yes, all that business with Cleona and Dalach was beginning to seem like a dream too—the whole night was becoming just one big blur of confusion.
“Now eat up, Grubb,” said Mrs. Pinch, startling me from my thoughts. “Blind me if I should heat your sausages only for you to eat them cold.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, and I dug in.
“Now see here, Alistair,” said Lord Dreary. “Before we leave the subject of Mad Malmuirie’s demon catcher, what say you make good on your promise from last night?”
“Very well, then.” Father rose from his chair and spoke into the talkback beside the dining room’s massive, china-filled breakfront. “If you’re within the sound of my voice, Cleona, please join us in Nigel’s quarters at your earliest convenience, will you?” Father switched off the talkback and sat back down at the table. “Eat up, then, all of you,” he said. “You’ll want a full stomach for the day I’ve got in store.”
We quickly finished our breakfast and followed Father upstairs into Nigel’s chambers. Cleona was there waiting for us, hovering beside the heap in the center of the room. But when she smiled and wished me good morning, I could hardly meet her eyes. I felt guilty about spying on her the night before, but I also felt suspicious. Was Cleona really bewitched? And if so, would she ever leave if Dalach broke Father’s spell?
Rubbish, I told myself. Father loved Cleona, and he would never bewitch her into doing anything against her will.
“Isn’t that right, Grubb?” Father asked, and I shook off my thoughts to find everyone staring at me.
“Er, uh,” I stammered. “Isn’t what right, sir?”
“I was explaining the events of last night, and looked to you for confirmation.” My heart froze and I just stood there gaping. Did Father know about my spying on the banshees? “You do remember helping me catch a demon, don’t you?” he added.
I sighed with relief. “Oh, that—yes, sir.”
“You feeling all right, Grubb?” Nigel asked. “Your head’s been in the clouds all morning.”
“Still a bit shaken, I suppose. Nasty business, that demon catching.”
“Speaking of clouds,” Father said. “Nigel, would you care to do the honors?”
And without further ado, Nigel tore off the sheet, exposing his secret project underneath. The old folks gasped, and my jaw nearly hit the floor.
There in the center of the room was a black open-air carriage with a small crystal conductor sphere attached to its back end. Inside the sphere, a cloud of black smoke churned violently; outside, pipes connected in all directions to steering mechanisms and exhaust vents similar to the Odditorium’s. Attached to the front of the carriage was some sort of furnace contraption loaded with gears and pistons, and from which a long cable plugged into Nigel’s charging station.
“Behold my latest invention,” Father said. “I call it a demon buggy. Named, of course, after its main power source.”
“Great poppycock!” Lord Dreary cried. “You mean the demon you captured last night is inside that sphere?”
As if in reply, the conductor sphere began to tremble and a pair of glowing orange eyes snapped open amidst the smoke within. I jumped back in fear.
“The demon buggy works exactly the same as the Odditorium,” Father said. “Under the protection of my magic paint, Cleona’s animus safely controls its mechanical functions, while the dust harnessed from our demonic friend enables the buggy to fly.”
Lord Dreary gulped and fingered his collar, and Mack began to rumble in my waistcoat. “What time is it?” he cried as I opened him, but upon seeing the demon in the conductor sphere, he let out a loud “Ach!” and closed his case again. Cleona, on the other hand, was unafraid, and drifted over to the demon.
“I should think it’d go mad in there,” she said sadly.
“Unfortunately, madness and evil often go hand in hand,” Father replied.
“It’s just that, evil spirit or not, I can’t see taking part in torturing it.”
Father raised his voice. “Any discomfort this servant of evil might experience in the conductor sphere pales in comparison to that which it would inflict upon mankind. And once the foul creature has served its purpose, we shall send it into oblivion over the sea, thus ridding the world of untold pain and suffering. I should think, however unjust you find its temporary imprisonment, you’d be happy to have a hand in that. And so this discussion is closed.”
Frowning, Cleona heaved a heavy sigh and floated from the room. I felt sorry for her, but at the same time couldn’t help but wonder if she wasn’t on her way to see someone else who she thought had been unjustly imprisoned—someone who, only a matter of hours ago, called himself her one true love.
“Very well. Who’s up for a little jaunt about town?” Father asked, lightening the mood, and he disconnected the cable from the buggy’s front furnace—which, judging by its location and its coating of magic paint, I understood to be charged with animus.
“You mean you’re going to fly that thing now?” Lord Dreary cried.
“My entire plan to defeat Prince Nightshade hinges upon it,” Father said. He threw a nearby lever and the Odd
itorium’s outer wall split apart like a set of jaws preparing to chomp the sky. A cold wind swirled through the chamber and rustled the newspaper articles on the wall above Nigel’s desk. Father climbed into the demon buggy and, donning a pair of goggles, sat down behind the steering wheel and cranked on the ignition. The buggy’s engine roared to life, and tendrils of black and blue smoke began seeping out of the rear exhaust vents.
I shivered. The blue smoke was obviously expelled animus. And if Father was planning on taking the buggy outside, unprotected by the Odditorium’s magic paint, the doom dogs would most certainly pick up on it.
Father read the fear on my face. “You needn’t worry about the doom dogs!” he hollered above the din. “The demon’s dust renders the animus harmless, just like Gwendolyn’s! Who’s with me?”
Father held up another pair of goggles, and before I realized my feet were moving, I tossed Mack onto Nigel’s desk and sat down next to Father with the goggles over my eyes. Nigel strapped a large leather cowl onto his head and climbed into the seat behind us, but Lord Dreary and Mrs. Pinch remained where they stood.
“Blind me if I ever set foot in that thing!” Mrs. Pinch shouted. “Your heads need oiling, the lot of you!” Lord Dreary nodded in agreement.
“We should be back by noon!” Father called. “Have the hangar doors open and lunch waiting, will you, Mrs. Pinch? We won’t have time to dillydally!”
And with that, Father threw the demon buggy into gear.
In one moment we were rolling toward the opening in the wall, and in the next the sky was all around us—the cold wind whipping at my hair as we plummeted toward an endless blanket of sun-frosted clouds.
My heart leaped into my throat. The demon buggy wasn’t flying, it was falling—and falling fast!
I screamed and grabbed hold of my seat.
“Not to worry!” Father shouted. He pressed some buttons on the buggy’s instrument panel, but still we continued to drop like a stone. Finally, Father pushed and pulled a collection of levers that stuck up between our seats. Gears clanked and dampers flapped, and then the demon buggy leveled off and began soaring upward into the air.
“It works, sir!” Nigel cried out behind me, and I gazed past him to find a massive plume of black and blue smoke billowing out of the buggy’s exhaust. The demon inside the conductor sphere was spinning madly, its eyes and black-fanged mouth just a blur of orange amidst its whirling black dust. Father tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to a bright red button on the instrument panel.
“This knob releases itching powder into the conductor sphere!” he shouted. “Just one pull will keep that demon back there churning out dust for hours!”
I nodded, speechless, and Father plunged the buggy into the clouds. A thick gray fog enveloped us at once as beads of water rippled across my goggles and chilled my cheeks. I could barely see the buggy’s controls in front of me. It seemed as if our descent would go on forever—when finally we emerged from the clouds high above the countryside. Rolling patches of farmland dotted the landscape in every direction, and in the misty distance I could see a large, rambling town of majestic stone buildings.
Father flew straight for it, descending quickly and landing the demon buggy on one of the outlying country roads. He flicked some switches and pulled some levers, and soon we were rolling along, kicking up dust and drawing strange looks from people we passed.
“Aren’t you afraid we’ll be spotted, sir?” Nigel asked. “After that scene in London, lots of people will be looking for us, not to mention Prince Nightshade.”
“The town you see before you is Cambridge, home to the esteemed university of the same name and some of the most brilliant minds in the world. Residents in these parts are used to seeing mechanical wonders, and will undoubtedly think our demon buggy just another one of those steam-powered carriages that have become so popular of late.”
“If you say so, sir.”
“Nevertheless, your point is well taken, Nigel.” Father pulled a yellow knob on his instrument panel and a metal canopy folded down over the rear conductor sphere, shielding the entire contraption from view. “We’ll find a place to hide the buggy too. Hope you don’t mind standing guard over it until Grubb and I return.”
“Right-o, sir,” Nigel said, and upon reaching the outskirts of town, Father parked the demon buggy behind a large clump of trees. He gave some final instructions to Nigel, and then Father and I set off across a bridge toward the town on the opposite side of the river.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” I said, “but may I ask where we’re going?”
“To visit someone who, quite literally, holds the key to my plan.”
My heart nearly burst with excitement. “You mean we’re going after some more Odditoria to defeat Prince Nightshade?”
Father stopped and held me by the shoulders. “You must never say his name in public, son,” he whispered. “One never knows where his spies might be perched.” Father glanced up at some nearby trees, and I understood. Crows. Prince Nightshade used his flock mainly to locate animus, but who knew what other tricks those crafty birds were capable of? I swallowed hard and nodded, and then we were on our way again.
After winding our way through a labyrinth of cobblestone streets, Father and I eventually came upon the soaring edifices of the university. Carriages rattled and horses clopped as crowds of scholarly gentlemen milled about, many in strange square hats and hooded robes that appeared much too big for them. Father paid them no mind, but would often pause to look at something and mutter to himself, “Ah, that’s new,” or, “I don’t remember that.” He knew where he was going, and just as a bell began to toll, we passed through a wide stone archway and into a squarely groomed courtyard.
“Right on schedule,” Father said, gazing up at the clock tower, and a mob of students began pouring out of the surrounding buildings. Father quickly led me into one of them, where we climbed a narrow staircase and shut ourselves inside a cluttered study. Books and manuscripts were piled everywhere, and portraits of sour-faced gentlemen stared back at us as if irritated by our presence.
“Please, have a seat, Grubb,” Father said, and he plopped down behind the desk and began perusing a newspaper. I cleared off a stack of books from an armchair, and then the two of us just sat there waiting, the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece the only sound. My curiosity quickly turned to impatience. Who are we meeting and why? I kept asking myself, and then a muffled voice startled me from my thoughts.
“I’ll expect your rebuttal by noon tomorrow,” a man said just outside the door, and the knob began to turn. My body tensed, but Father seemed unconcerned, and just carried on with his reading.
A tall red-haired gentleman with ruddy cheeks and wire spectacles entered the study. He did not see us at first, and tossed a large leather volume upon a table by the door. He then hung up his robe on a nearby coatrack and, catching sight of Father in a mirror upon the wall, wheeled around with surprise.
“You!” was all he could manage, and Father folded his newspaper and smiled.
“Hello, Oscar. Long time no see.”
Father and I rose slowly to our feet, and a long, tense silence passed in which the three of us just stood there, sizing each other up. The red-haired gentleman looked terribly anxious. For a moment, I was certain he would bolt, but then, with a heavy sigh, he appeared to resign himself to our presence. He thrust his hands into his pockets and said, “But you’re a cheeky blighter, aren’t you?”
“I believe some introductions are in order,” Father replied. “Grubb, I’d like you to meet Oscar Bricklewick, world-renowned scholar and Regius Professor of Modern History. Oscar, this is my son, Grubb.”
“Grubb, did you say?”
“That I did. Spelled like the worm but with a double b, should you care to write it down.”
“Is he…?” Bricklewick asked, giving me the once-over, and Father nodded.
“It’s a long story, but yes.”
“Then the rumors were tru
e. All those years ago—Elizabeth was with child.”
“It appears you’re an expert on rumors as of late,” Father said, and he read from the newspaper. “‘“The only sorcery here is a bit of high-tech flimflam,” Bricklewick said upon inquiry from The Times. “Judging from the eyewitness reports of a sparkling green mist emanating from the Odditorium as it took flight, it is clear that Grim unleashed upon the public a powerful hallucinogenic gas—”’”
“That’s enough,” Professor Bricklewick said. He grabbed the newspaper and tossed it in the dustbin. Father sat on the edge of the desk and shook his head, tsk-tsk.
“Really now, Oscar,” he said. “Hallucinogenic gas? Mass hysteria? Is that the best you can do?”
“What should I have told them? That Alistair Grim, my once closest friend, is indeed a sorcerer? Capable of feats of magic far beyond the evasion of his creditors?”
“Someone must’ve gotten word that we went to school together,” Father said. “Why else would they consult a history professor about something so clearly outside his area of expertise? Unless, of course, the professor in question approached The Times himself for a bit of publicity.”
Professor Bricklewick’s cheeks grew red. “What are you doing here, Alistair? I should think being wanted dead or alive would discourage a scoundrel of your repute from making social calls.”
“You know very well this isn’t a social call. Therefore, let’s dispense with the chitchat and get to the point. I need your help.”
Professor Bricklewick gasped in astonishment. “My help? Surely you must be joking.” Father shrugged. The professor appeared on the verge of a tirade, but upon seeing my confusion, stopped himself and said, “You haven’t told him, have you?”
“Told him what?” Father replied.
“About your betrayal.”
“That’s a bit strong, Oscar, don’t you think? Betrayal?”
Professor Bricklewick sneered and began frantically pacing the room. “Your insolence truly knows no bounds,” he said, incredulous. “Let me tell you something about your father—Grubb, right? It is Grubb, isn’t it?”