by Debi Gliori
Contents
Title Page
A Note to the Reader
Dramatis Personae
Letters
Kiss of Death
Time, Gentlemen, Please
Friendly Fire
The Coven Cometh
Slightly Damp
Mud and Diamond
Scary Biscuits
Night Moves
Weirdm@il
The Comfort of Cobwebs
Down the Hatch
The Ablutions of Astoroth
The Illegitimate Dragon
Time Out
A Death in the Family
Under the Weather
Soggy Batteries
A Little Dish of Revenge
O Sole Mio
Tarantella Spills the Beans . . .
. . . and Mrs. McLachlan Spills the Salt
Written in the Stars
Spilt Blood
Titus Grown
Sleeping Boaty
Kraken Kin
Scissors, Paper, Stone
Water Babies
Father of Lies
4,748 Days Old
Forthcoming Attractions
Gliossary
Copyright Page
Dramatis Personae
THE FAMILY
TITUS STREGA-BORGIA—about-to-be-thirteen-year-old hero
PANDORA STREGA-BORGIA—ten-year-old heroine
DAMP STREGA-BORGIA—their two-year-old sister
SIGNOR LUCIANO AND SIGNORA BACI STREGA-BORGIA—parents of the above
STREGA-NONNA— great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother (cryogenically preserved) of Titus, Pandora, and Damp
DON LUCIFER DI S'EMBOWELLI BORGIA—half brother of Luciano Strega-Borgia
NOSTRILAMUS, MALEFICA OF CALEDON—long-dead ancestor of the Borgia clan
THE GOOD HELP THAT WAS HARD TO FIND
MRS. FLORA MCLACHLAN—nanny to Titus, Pandora, and Damp LATCH—butler at StregaSchloss
MARIE BAIN—possibly the worst cook in the Western Hemisphere
THE BEASTS
ALPHA—centaur and librarian
TARANTELLA—spider with attitude
SAB, FFUP, and KNOT—mythical Schloss dungeon beasts
NESTOR—Ffup's infant son
TOCK—crocodile inhabitant of Schloss moat
MULTITUDINA, THE ILLITERAT—rat, mother to multitudes, and Pandora's pet
TERMINUS—daughter of the above
THE SLEEPER—Scottish unreconstructed-male mythical beast
THE HOUSEGUESTS
ARIADNE VENTETE—student witch and balloonist
HECATE BRINSTONE—student witch
BLACK DOUGLAS—student witch and yoga tutor
FIAMMA D'INFER—student witch and impostor
ASSORTED PROTO-SORCERERS—an additional eight students from the Institute of Applied Witchcraft
THE IMMORTALS
ASTOROTH—Second Minister of the Hadean Executive, with special responsibility for pacts and soul harvests
THE BOSS—Astoroth's online manager, First Minister of the Hadean Executive
A Note to the Reader
There are few things more confusing for tourists than the Scottish population's halfhearted adoption of the 24-hour clock. Hapless tourists are asked to adhere to bus, train, and airplane timetables that lurch giddily between normal time (the train will depart at 5:30 P.M.) and 24-hour time (the train will depart at 17:30). The author apologizes on behalf of all mass-transportation companies, and advises her readers to seriously consider using an Alarming Clock for all their future travel needs.
Slander, Defame & Grabbit Attorneys-at-Law
The Old Vaults
Litigants Close
Auchenlochtermuchty
Argyll
Dr. A. Aunt
c/o Egg & After
Suite 34001, Nutmeg Towers
Canary Wharf
London
Publication of defamatory material impugning character
and proclivities of T. & F. Strega-Borgia
Dear Sir/Madam:
My esteemed clients Tock Strega-Borgia Esq., Master Nestor, and Miss Ffup Strega-Borgia have brought to my attention a copy of your publication (July bumper edition) in which they were distressed to discover that their names, reputations, legitimacy, and intellectual capabilities had all been mentioned in a disrespectful, nay, slanderous manner. Not wishing to further impugn the good name of Strega-Borgia, my clients wish me to convey to you the terms under which they are prepared to “forgive and forget.”
In the first instance, my clients demand that you print a fulsome apology to them in your magazine in a type size no less than 48 point, and spanning no less than one full double-page spread. This apology to be printed in the “mega holiday read” August edition.
Second, my clients are desirous of some form of material compensation to allay the considerable mental anguish caused them by your devastating attack on their good name. I would suggest that a sum of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds would suffice.
Finally, my clients would like to stress their direct connection through a blood tie to a large Italian clan, better known as the Mafia. It hardly needs to be said that some of these relatives would be inclined, if informed about your recent “indiscretion,” to take more than a passing interest in slanderous journalists writing about Family members.
Capisce?
Yours sincerely,
Sr. Dormi Piscatelli w.s. (“The Shark”)
Kiss of Death
Titus decided that if there were a button to press that would cause his sister to reincarnate as a cockroach, he would push it without a moment's hesitation. He stood outside her bedroom door, seething, as he read the notice taped to the oak paneling:
PANDORA'S ROOM
entry is absolutely forbidden to any of the following:
brothers
dweebs
possessors of smelly pits & dog's breath
one-celled amoebas with memory of goldfish
smug, rich jerks
the terminally plug-ugly
the criminally insane
and especially the vertically challenged over 12 yrs.
Titus, all of the above describe you, so bog off.
Yours Cordially, Pandora Strega-Borgia
Pandora's Room
StregaSchloss
Argyll
Scotland
United Kingdom
Europe
Western Hemisphere
Earth
The Universe
The Galaxy
“Just because I'm about to inherit all Grandfather Borgia's money and you're broke doesn't mean you have to be so aggressive.” Titus's voice bounced off the door and down the landing, but brought no answering response from within. He pressed his mouth up to the keyhole and tried again. “Some people just can't handle other people's good fortune, can they, Pandora?”
Over his head, dangling from the cornice, Pandora's pet tarantula, Tarantella, gave out an exasperated “Tchhhh.” Titus looked up and shuddered. There was something about the scuttling nature of spiders that revolted him. This one in particular, with her swollen abdomen, gave him nightmares. Titus loathed the entire spider race with a deep and abiding passion. Their gross hairiness, their appetite for flies, their—
The tarantula grinned widely, as if reading his thoughts. “Like it?” she inquired, puckering up her lipsticked mouth parts into a pout. “It's a new one. Now, what's it called . . . ?” Tarantella rummaged under her abdomen with one hairy leg and produced a minuscule lipstick. “Let me see . . . ‘Blood-Lust.' Mmm-hmm. Come on, Titus, I know you find me irresistible, give us a kiss. . . .”
With a barely stifled shriek, Titus fled downstair
s. Trembling, he burst through the kitchen door and was immediately assailed by a stench that defied description. The beasts were already at breakfast and, judging by the state of the kitchen, had been eating for several hours. Sprawled across the kitchen table, Ffup, the teenage dragon, had her vast head buried in her talons.
“Don't say it,” she warned, gazing down at Titus with her vast golden eyes. “Just don't say it, right? I've been up all night with that wee horror, and now he sits there, wolfs down forty-eight Miserablios, three boxes of Ricey Krispettes, and then does a major dump, downloading the lot into his pants. I tell you, pal, I'm not cut out for this motherhood stuff. I hate changing diapers, and . . .” The dragon paused, peered under her baby's high chair, and whimpered, “Yup, just as I thought, it's a shovel job.”
“Spare me the details,” muttered Titus, edging past Ffup and patting her offending infant on his scaly little head. “Phwoarr, Nestor, you stink, don't you?”
The baby gazed up at Titus and grinned gummily, clapping his tiny wings above his head and lashing his snake-like tail back and forth by way of greeting. This had the unfortunate consequence of launching most of the contents of his overloaded diaper into orbit.
“Stop. Stop. STOP!” wailed Ffup. “Oh, yeurrrch. I can't handle this. . . . Knot! KNOT? Come on, help me out here.”
Emerging from the pantry with a sheepish grin, Knot the yeti shuffled across the kitchen to stare hopefully at his fellow beasts. The yeti's perpetually unsanitary fur was clotted with fetid lumps of food that had somehow failed to make the journey to his mouth. He wrinkled up his fur in the general area of his nose, sniffed deeply in sincerest appreciation of the odors in the kitchen, and sighed in happy anticipation.
“Nestor has a wee something for you,” muttered Ffup, burying her nostrils in a coffee cup. “Freshly laid, still warm . . .”
“Give me strength,” gagged Titus, turning his back on this revolting inter-beast exchange.
“Mmm-yummy,” observed Knot, dipping an experimental paw in the puddle under Nestor's high chair. Titus moaned softly and closed his eyes. Knot sniffed, unrolled his lengthy spotted tongue, and sampled a little morsel. “Naww,” he pronounced, at length. “Bit overripe, that one. Nope. Don't fancy it much.”
“Don't be so picky,” said Ffup. “Be a gent. Help me out. Just close your eyes and think of Gorgonzola. Pleeeeease?”
Knot wiped his paw on his tummy and scratched his armpit thoughtfully. “If you don't mind, I'll pass,” he mumbled, clearly uncomfortable at the prospect of letting Ffup down. “I'm not really too hungry right this minute.”
“Well, I'm starving,” said Pandora, arriving in the kitchen by way of the door to the herb garden. “Phwoarr. Urghhh. What's that stench?”
“Here we go again,” sighed Ffup, glaring at her baby son. “See what you've done?”
“'Morning, all.” Pandora kicked off her rubber boots and came over to warm herself beside Titus at the range. “Are we all pretending that there isn't a vast pile of dragon poo on the floor over there, or is someone going to clean it up?”
“Ffup is,” said Titus. “Aren't you, Ffup?”
“What? And ruin my manicured talons?” squeaked the dragon. “You can't be serious. These took me ages.” Hoping for female sympathy, she extended one paw for Pandora's inspection. Each of her seven talons was painted a lurid sugar-pink. “Pretty, aren't they?” Ffup smirked, examining her paw with satisfaction, turning it this way and that, all the better to catch the light.
Mrs. Flora McLachlan, nanny to Titus and Pandora, entered the kitchen with their baby sister, Damp, in her arms. Smelling something truly awful and assuming that it was about to be her breakfast, the little girl buried her face in the nanny's shoulder and gave a little moan.
“Good heavens, is that the time?” Mrs. McLachlan peered at the mantelpiece clock in dismay. “My bedside clock isn't keeping very good time, and the alarm didn't go off.” Then, as she became aware of the odor in the kitchen, she added, “Ffup, dear, I'm sure you're aware that Nestor needs a diaper change. D'you think you could stop admiring your manicure, stir your stumps, and do it before your mistress comes downstairs for breakfast?”
Ffup gave two snorts of flame and slowly heaved herself out of her chair. “Do I have to? That's so unfair. Why do I always have to clean up after him? It's so boring.”
“Ffup—” said Mrs. McLachlan in a tone of voice that offered no recourse to argument.
Ffup looked up and met the nanny's eyes, which had shrunk down to two little slits of menace. Ffup was immediately galvanized into action. “Rrright away. Where's that shovel? Rrrrubber gloves on . . . snap. Antibacterial spray . . . squirt. Scrape poo out from between flagstones on floor . . . splat . . .”
“The high chair, too, Ffup,” said Mrs. McLachlan, one eyebrow raised.
“Yup. Yuzzm. Your wish, my command. Breathe through mouth . . . gasp, remove infant dragon to kitchen sink . . . squelch, remove diaper . . . ah. Um. Yes. Perhaps you guys might care to have breakfast somewhere else?” Ffup suggested, as her infant slid out of her grasp and landed among the unwashed dishes in the sink. “Apply gas mask . . . urrrrgh.”
“What have you been feeding that poor child?” demanded Mrs. McLachlan.
“Oh, that?” said Ffup, breathing through her mouth as she unzipped Nestor's onesie. “I couldn't be bothered to cook last night, so we just polished off the remains of a couple of boxes of chocolates and some tinned peaches in syrup we found at the back of the fridge—”
“Those weren't peaches,” groaned Mrs. McLachlan. “They were raw eggs for the cake that I was going to bake for this afternoon. Twenty-four eggs, Ffup. No wonder that poor wee mite's got an upset tummy. It's about time you faced up to the responsibilities of motherhood and grew—”
“What cake?” interrupted Titus. “Is it one of your chocolate meringue cakes? Oh, please make one of them! I'm so hungry I could eat at least six slices. Make a huge one. Use thirty-six eggs. Use a hundred. You're such a brilliant cook. I've never tasted cakes as good as—”
“What a crawler you are, Titus,” said Pandora, regarding her brother with disgust. “Just listen to yourself. Slurp, slurp. Grovel, grovel.”
“Shut up, Pan,” muttered Titus. “This is for your benefit, too, you know.”
“No, Titus, it's for your stomach's benefit, don't you know?” Pandora slapped her brother's midriff and tutted. “I know you're about to become a plutocrat, but there's simply no need to become a bloated one.”
“Do you think, sister mine, that we might possibly, just once, let a day go by without reference to my impending vast inheritance from Grandfather Borgia? The millions that will allow me to live a life of unimaginable luxury while you, you poor thing, will only be able to watch and drool. Mind you, right now you're not so much drooling as spraying me with vitriol—I mean, anyone would think you were jealous or something. . . .”
“Oh heck, no,” Pandora replied, examining her fingernails with apparent fascination. “Not in the least jealous, just a little peeved, is all. . . . After all, what possible difference could it make to me when you get your hands on your millions? It's not going to change anything important between us, is it? I mean, it's not going to make me think you're any less of a dweeb, or more intelligent, or less plug-ugly. And”—she delivered her final thrust with deadly precision—“from the moment those millions become yours, you're never, ever going to be sure if we all put up with you because you're one of us, our very own Titus, or because you're filthy rich.”
Pandora turned on her heel and stalked out of the kitchen, banging the door behind her. She stormed along the corridor and across the great hall to the staircase, then took the stairs two at a time in order to reach the safe haven of her room before her feelings engulfed her. Stumbling across the moth-eaten rug, she flung herself facedown on her bed, emitting a strangled shriek. Downstairs, the grandfather clock chimed the hour, the half hour, quarter past the hour, thirteen, and then, apparently embarrassed at its o
wn excesses, gave an asthmatic wheeze and fell silent. That was part of the problem, Pandora thought, thumping her pillow with both fists. If only she could turn the clock back and undo the past. Specifically, three months past, when Titus discovered that he was the chosen benefactor of their grandfather's vast hoard of money. Since then it was as if an invisible barrier had sprung up between her brother and herself. Everything was about to change, and probably not for the better. And yes, of course I'm jealous, thought Pandora, grinding her teeth. I'm turning a deep and unflattering shade of green at the prospect of Titus becoming a millionaire and me still having to make one measly week's pocket money last for a whole seven days.
“It's so unfair,” Pandora wailed out loud. “Why did Grandfather leave it all to him?”
Time, Gentlemen, Please
(A.D. 127: Northwestern Argyll)
On filthy nights such as this, Nostrilamus was prone to curse the fate that had brought him to the Celt-infested wilds of Caledonia. Not only were the natives malevolent, woad-daubed savages, but the climate was hostile beyond belief, prompting the centurions under his command to ship many scrolls between Lethe and Ostia, begging the folks back home to send hides, blankets, and fleece-lined cloaks; in short, anything to prevent native Romans from freezing to death in Caledonia. An icy rain had greeted Nostrilamus on his arrival at the port of Lethe. It had dogged his passage across the country for the seven days it had taken him and his legion to reach this crude tavern on the northwestern shore.
To Nostrilamus's further discomfort was added the fact that his armor had rusted, his leather breastplate was currently sprouting some ghastly form of Celtic fungus, and he spent each miserable day frozen to the bone, wrapped in his useless green cloak. His hideously expensive green cloak, which the maker had assured him would easily withstand whatever the weather cared to throw at him. On contact with a mild drizzle, said wonder-cloak had begun to leak copious quantities of green dye, causing Nostrilamus's exposed limbs to turn the gangrenous hue of a plague victim on the point of expiry. In daylight, women and children took one look at him and ran away screaming. This, he decided, was no bad thing. In his new appointment as Malefica of Caledon, Nostrilamus regarded it as his duty to inspire fear and loathing in the native population.