Pure Dead Brilliant

by Debi Gliori

  “Heavens above, my wee pet,” she whispered, stroking the child's soft hair. “How are we going to keep you a secret?”

  Mrs. McLachlan was used to keeping things hidden, but she suspected that Signora Strega-Borgia would be unable to remain silent about Damp's abilities for very long. Moreover, to allow Damp to develop her true potential powers, it was vitally important that the baby received instruction from a true adept, and not from a well-intentioned amateur like her mother.

  Damp looked up at her beloved nanny with a truly woebegone expression. Her lashes were stuck with tears in pointy clumps, and she sniffed, rubbing her eyes with a fist. Sitting back in the rocking chair, Mrs. McLachlan began to rock, patting the baby in her arms, the rhythm calming the nanny as much as it soothed the child. After a few minutes, she gently removed the wooden spoon from Damp's unresisting hand.

  “No more wooden spoons for you, pet,” she said, smiling at the baby. “In fact, anything remotely resembling a wand has to be put away out of your reach. Like Sleeping Beauty and the spindle—one slip and we're doomed.”

  Mud and Diamond

  (A.D. 130: Uncharted depths of northern Scotland)

  Under a dripping canopy of leaves in the heart of the Forest of Caledon, Nostrilamus picked the remains of last night's roasted hind from between his teeth and snarled at the laboring legionaries.

  “Can't you lot work any faster? A bunch of eunuchs armed with toothpicks could dig faster than that. Come on, put your backs into it!”

  Exhausted and dispirited, the legionaries doggedly sank their rusting spades into the mud and gritted what few remaining teeth they possessed. Hollow-cheeked and prematurely gray, the men bore little resemblance to the bronze musclemen they had been when they left the sun-kissed shores of Italia, full of hope and eagerly anticipating the adventure of a posting in Caledonia. It had been three long years since they had arrived here, spades in hand, to begin this idiotic treasure hunt. Three interminable years of rain, mud, and misery. Sleeping in leaky tents, eating only what they could catch in the forest, waking every dawn to the sound of rain, and fueled on little more than acorn porridge, the legionaries began to suspect they were digging their own graves. As if that wasn't bad enough, the depressed Romans had to endure dragon attacks—which came with no warning and inevitably proved fatal.

  “Hold it!” Nostrilamus left the shelter of his tree and limped toward them, his emaciated frame barely able to support the weight of his rusty armor, his boil-encrusted ankles spattered with mud from the trailing hem of his once-fine woollen cloak—now a tattered rag that gave scant warmth and served only as a reminder of how far he had fallen from grace. “There. That there. What is it?” Nostrilamus, the once autocratic Malefica of Caledon, wheezed like a set of leaky bellows as he peered into the muddy pit in which his men stood, knee-deep in icy sludge, picking fitfully at the walls of mud that rose above their heads, their battered shovels hardly equal to the task. With a clawlike hand, Nostrilamus pointed to where he could just see a shard of metal glinting in the surrounding rocks and clay. Despite prolonged burial in mud, its silver color seemed undamaged, and it was this that had drawn his eye. On shaking legs he climbed down into the pit and waded over to where his men stood propped on their shovels, praying to Jupiter that this time they'd struck pay dirt.

  There had been numerous false alarms along the way: the half-buried weapons and armor of their deceased predecessors, peeled of their inedible shell of breastplates and helmets and devoured whole by the dragons like some soft-fleshed Italian delicacy. Astoroth's vellum map, which Nostrilamus had used to try to locate the demon's treasure, had long since disintegrated in the perpetual drizzle, but by then, having pored over it so often, the legionaries could have redrawn it in their sleep. They had dug so many holes in the hope of finding treasure that the floor of the Forest of Caledon looked as if it had been struck by a meteor shower. So the legionaries betrayed little excitement as their commander scrabbled with his fingernails at the earth surrounding the outcrop of gleaming metal.

  “Yes. Yes. Yessss!” Nostrilamus hissed. “This is it! Toadflax, get over here and dig, but carefully, man—damage it and I'll have you posted to Siberius.”

  The chosen Toadflax sloshed forward, shovel raised to shoulder-height, and began to pick tentatively at the mud, exposing more of the strange silver metal. Beside him, Nostrilamus flapped excitedly, like a moth-eaten bat in the terminal stages of dementia. As each shovelful of mud was removed, the shape of a metal casket was revealed. Sweating with the effort, Toadflax dropped his shovel into the slurry at his feet and hauled on a corner of the casket. Making a sucking sound, it slid effortlessly out of its muddy cradle, its weight propelling the legionary backward with a grunt of surprise.

  “Up here!” commanded Nostrilamus, scaling the wall of the pit with an agility at odds with his ravaged appearance. “Under the tree, quickly.”

  Curious to see what manner of treasure this was, all the legionaries scrambled out of the pit and gathered round their leader. Toadflax laid the casket on the ground with something approaching reverence. His brow furrowed in concentration, he pointed to where a series of marks were embossed in the metal.

  “Begging your pardon, Caledon, but what's that then? Those weird symbols on the lid? What's it say? You being schooled in the interpreting of symbols, not like us dumb squaddies.”

  Nostrilamus cleared his throat and leaned over the casket. Must be a name, he guessed, racking his brains in an effort to recall the alphabet used by the native Caledonians. “Sih, Ah, Mih, Sih, Aw, Nih,” he pronounced at length, peering intently at the metal and adding, “Ih, Tih, Eh—S-a-m-s-o-n-i-t-e. Never heard of him. Must be the previous owner. Well, hey, who cares? It's mine now.” Prying the lid apart with the edge of his sword, he inhaled sharply.

  So absorbed were they all in the sight of the jeweled contents of the Samsonite suitcase that they completely failed to notice the vast shape that had tiptoed up to stand behind them. The vast shape with an even vaster appetite . . .

  Wallowing comfortably in a scented pool five hundred miles away from these events in the Forest of Caledon, Astoroth heard the unmistakable sound of his cell phone ringing. Apologizing to his fellow bathers, he wrapped a linen towel around his hairy thighs and clip-clopped off to answer it, his forked tail undulating behind him. Plucking his cloak from the astonished slave in charge of the cloakroom, he headed for the privacy of the vomitorium to take the call.

  “Excellent,” he whispered, grinning into the mouthpiece. “What took him so long? Three years, for pity's sake! What a moron—he had the map, after all.” Listening to the voice on the other end, Astoroth was momentarily distracted by the sight of a portly tribune who staggered into the vomitorium and, oblivious to the demon's presence, leant over a hole in the floor and emptied his stomach of all contents. The laurel crown on the man's head fell off into the pool of regurgitated food, and sank without a trace.

  “Rrrevolting,” muttered Astoroth, adding into the mouthpiece, “can't wait to be relocated in a more civilized time zone. Look, I have to go. Walls have ears and all that jazz. Does this mean I'm in line for promotion? It was I who did the deal with Nostrilamus and descendants, after all. Surely that counts for something?”

  From the other end came an outraged roar, causing the demon to turn pale and blurt, “It said nothing in my contract about retrieving the Chronostone. Why are you picking on me? I've never even seen it. What does it look like?” Across the room, the tribune was fishing for his laurels in what appeared to be an open sewer. Gritting his teeth, Astoroth whispered, “You're dropping me in the poo here. Are you one hundred per cent positive it's been muddled up with the gems I planted for my new client?” Trying desperately to rein in his thoughts, the demon groaned. Even if he set off on horseback immediately, he'd never make it up to the Forest of Caledon in time to find the suitcase. That meant hanging around in this hideous time zone till Nostrilamus popped his clogs and had a soul ripe for harvest. . . . By then,
the Chronostone could be anywhere. Still, the demon reasoned, anything was better than crawling back to the Hadean Executive with the happy tidings that he, Astoroth, had somehow managed to lose the Boss's most prized possession. With this in mind, he pleaded with the voice on the other end of the line, “Look, I'll try and get it back before anyone notices. For my sake, please don't let the Boss know it's, ah . . . missing, or he'll relocate me as a cockroach in Moscow. . . .”

  Night fell in the Forest of Caledon. Helmets lay abandoned in the ferns, swords littered the mud, and a watery moonlight picked out the battlefield where Nostrilamus's legionaries had failed to defend themselves against the dragon attack.

  Drawn, not by the smell of unwashed humans, but by the brilliant light that poured out of the excavated casket, the dragon had stood statue-still behind the legionaries, watching as each rope of pearls, each little leather pouch of rubies, emeralds, and sapphires had been plucked from the hoard—until at last, at the very bottom of the pile, Nostrilamus came upon the single stone whose brilliance made all the other jewels seem dull and tawdry by comparison.

  At that point the dragon cleared her throat and announced her presence. “I'll have that, squirt,” she growled, stepping forward to claim the egg-sized diamond. “I've been hunting for yon earring for eons. Pass it over,” and extending a massive, taloned paw, she shouldered through the terror-stricken circle of legionaries.

  If only they hadn't put up such a fight, she thought, patting her vast belly with faint regret. Italian food was so fattening. She'd let the scrawniest one go, watching in amusement as he ran screaming into the forest, gemstones spilling from his pockets, sheer terror giving his feet wings. Self-preservation overcoming his greed, Nostrilamus had abandoned the most precious treasure of all without a backward glance.

  “Silly boy,” the dragon whispered, reclining in her roost at the top of a Scots pine and reaching up with one talon to check that her long-lost earring was safely in place. It dangled from her ear, each facet of the diamond-like stone catching the moonlight and sending sparkling reflections dancing across the clutch of eggs beneath the dragon's belly. With no desire other than self-adornment, the dragon had no idea of the immense power currently decorating her ear. In its time, the gem had been given many names—Precious, Pericola d'Illuminem, Ignea Lucifer—names spoken in many tongues and in as many countries across the world as it was traded, passed on, inherited, and fought over. It answered to one name only, however, and that was Chronostone, the Stone of Time.

  Scary Biscuits

  Afternoon tea on the lawn had evolved into supper, and despite the gnats and the slight chill in the air, the Strega-Borgias and their guests still sat outside round the table. The light in the sky had faded to a dusky lavender, so Latch had hung several lanterns from the lower branches of a flowering cherry tree. Tock and Ffup had combined their swimming and fire-lighting skills to send a flotilla of candles set on lily pads floating serenely across the moat. Black Douglas produced a three-quarter-sized violin from a small case and, tucking the tiny instrument under his beard, proceeded to draw from it a haunting melody. Round the table conversation ebbed and flowed, the music weaving in and out of the voices like an endless ribbon. Even Mrs. McLachlan relaxed her hawk-like watch over Damp and, closing her eyes, sighed with deep contentment.

  “They played that tune at our wedding, didn't they, darling?” Signora Strega-Borgia said to her husband, wishing to somehow lighten his mood. Luciano was not for cheering up, however. The hideous prospect of a week of wall-to-wall houseguests stretched out interminably ahead of him, and he declined to reply.

  “Oh, Luciano, surely you remember this bit. . . .” And hoping that music might reach the parts that her words were failing to touch, Signora Strega-Borgia began to sing in harmony with the violin. “Ae fond kiss, and then we sever. . . .”

  Walking across the lawn with a lit candelabra in each hand, Latch stopped abruptly. That song . . . His eyes filled with tears as the music tugged at his memory. In childhood, his mother had sung the same melody to soothe him to sleep. . . .

  Even Titus for once failed to be embarrassed by his mother's behavior. He'd always loved the sound of her singing and here, looking at the candlelit heads round the table, he knew that they, too, were caught in his mother's spell. All except Fiamma d'Infer were swaying in time to the music—but she alone sat rigid, her mouth curled in a sneer. Across the table, Damp appeared to be conducting Signora Strega-Borgia, using an unlit candle as a baton. . . .

  Mrs. McLachlan suddenly snapped out of her reverie. Something had dropped into her lap and was scrabbling back up on the tablecloth. Peering down, she found a small gingerbread man, one of a trayful she'd baked that morning—now no longer inert cookie dough, but fully alive and, alarmingly, very vocal.

  “Nya-nya-nya, nyaa-nyaa, you can't catch me!” it squeaked, adding somewhat redundantly, “I'm the Gingerbread Man.” As if to underline this, the animated biscuit ran a lap around the table, vaulting over wineglasses and clearing knives and forks with one bound. Sensing the disturbance, Signora Strega-Borgia trailed off in mid-song and looked to Mrs. McLachlan for understanding.

  “Must be weevils in the flour,” muttered the nanny, reaching out to catch the running figure as it sped past her outstretched hand.

  “I don't think so. . . .” Fiamma d'Infer expertly speared the Gingerbread Man on the end of her fork. To Mrs. McLachlan's horror, she brought the squealing little figure up to her mouth and, with a vicious smirk, bit its head off.

  Damp dropped her conductor's candle and screamed. Instantly Mrs. McLachlan was by her side, plucking the baby off her seat and hugging her tight.

  “Poor Damp. What on earth happened?” cried Signora Strega-Borgia, not having witnessed the beheading of the biscuit. Consequently she was somewhat in the dark as to why her youngest daughter was weeping. Mrs. McLachlan, hoping to avoid explanations, sought distraction. “Now, Damp, what have I told you about candles?” she chided, adding, “They're hot, hot, burrrny.” Since the candle Damp had been holding bore no evidence of ever having been lit, this statement might have caused some confusion had it not been for the appearance of Marie Bain at the head of the table.

  The cook's shadow stretched crookedly across the tablecloth, and a strange volcanic rumbling came from the vast coffeepot she was clutching with both hands. She listed across the lawn, each step causing a hissing brown fountain to erupt from the spout. Signor Strega-Borgia stood up. “Are you sure you can manage? Here, Marie, let me—” But before he could take the pot from her, the cook lunged toward the table and dropped the pot in the middle with a muffled shriek.

  “Ees hot,” she said, somewhat unnecessarily, since the tablecloth round the coffee pot was turning brown and beginning to smell like burnt ironing. “Now we haff coffee,” she said, making this simple statement of fact sound like a threat. She locked eyes with Black Douglas and demanded, “Meelk? Zoogir?” then tilting the pot at a dangerous angle, slopped a quantity of brown fluid into a nearby cup.

  “What is that stuff?” Titus whispered as his father sat down again. “It doesn't smell anything like coffee. . . .”

  The hapless Black Douglas, victim of Marie Bain's slitty-eyed scrutiny, brought the cup to his lips and took a tiny sip. For a split second his eyes registered shock, but just as quickly, realizing the cook was still monitoring his every gesture, he forced his stunned facial muscles into an approximation of a smile. “Mmm-hmm. Excellent,” he lied, reaching for the sugar bowl and spooning several heaped teaspoons of what he fervently hoped was brown sugar into his cup. Sweat broke out on his forehead and all the color drained from his face. Marie Bain smiled grimly and turned her attention to Signor Strega-Borgia, pouring out another cupful. Mrs. McLachlan hastily stood up, forestalling the cook's attempts to do the same for her. “No, thank you, dear. I must get this poor wee mite to bed,” she said, shifting Damp onto her hip. “Say good night to everyone, pet,” and she swiftly bore the baby off across the garden.
<
br />   Much to Mrs. McLachlan's dismay, a figure slipped away from the table and intercepted her before she could reach the house.

  “I didn't get a chance to say good night to the child,” said Fiamma d'Infer, stepping in front of Mrs. McLachlan and blocking her path. Damp gave a small howl and clung like a limpet to her nanny. But Fiamma persisted, standing too close and staring intently at the baby.

  “What a special little girl,” she purred, reaching out to curl a finger under Damp's chin and bring the baby's head up to meet her gaze. Damp immediately squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

  “I think she's a wee bit too tired to be sociable, don't you?” said Mrs. McLachlan briskly. “Come on, pet, let's run your bath.”

  Fiamma was not to be put off so easily. “Oh, but I have some absolutely heavenly stuff for your bath, my dear. Mmmm, yellow bubbles with green glittery stuff in them—you would just love it, wouldn't you?”

  “She's got sensitive skin,” hissed Mrs. McLachlan, hugging Damp protectively and attempting to step around this dreadful woman.

  “That's not all she's got.” Fiamma's voice developed an edge as she whispered, “I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about, Mrs. McLachlan.”

  The nanny shivered involuntarily. This ghastly woman knew. Somehow she'd worked it out. . . . Mrs. McLachlan felt short of breath, as if she were about to faint, almost as if hands were gripping her throat and squeezing—