Pure Dead Brilliant

by Debi Gliori

  “Look at me,” Fiamma commanded, bringing the full force of her will crashing down on top of the nanny. “Look. At. Me.”

  To Mrs. McLachlan's horror, she felt as if invisible hooks were dragging her chin upward. Damp was keening—a high, thin sound that the nanny had never heard her make before; she sounded as if she were in agony. Fiamma d'Infer laughed mockingly. “Look. At. Me,” she repeated, the words echoing weirdly, as if spoken down a well.

  “Heavens, do you have to be quite so demanding?” said a familiar voice from overhead. Giving a languid flap of her giant wings, Ffup glided down from the roof to land beside Mrs. McLachlan and peer at Fiamma with some confusion. “Okey-dokey, I'm here. I'm looking at you, seeing as how you asked, but, um . . . have you done something I should notice? Your hair? Your eyebrows?” The dragon frowned. “Nope, not the eyebrows. New makeup? You've had a nose job? Face-lift? Botox injections? Oh, come on, ladies, help me out here!” Realizing that no verbal clues were forthcoming, Ffup tried to fill up the silence with inane chatter. “So—where's the party? What's the haps, chaps? Why so glum, chum?” And with a little snort of flame, she dug Fiamma d'Infer in the ribs with her elbow, causing the woman to lose her balance and lurch into Signora Strega-Borgia, who had come running at full speed up to the house.

  “Ooops, sorry, Fiamma,” she gasped. “I've just realized what that awful coffee was made out of. Do excuse me for a minute, I must make sure that poor Marie doesn't make another pot.” And without further explanation she fled indoors.

  Taking this as an opportunity to escape, Mrs. McLachlan followed her employer inside. She ran upstairs to the nursery and locked Damp and herself in the bathroom. Not that one wee lock is any protection against that fiend, she thought, pulling Damp's dress off over her head and bending down to remove the baby's socks and shoes. She reached over and turned on both bath taps, finding the sound of running water strangely comforting, as if by its very domestic nature it could somehow wash away the terror of the previous five minutes. Whatever Fiamma d'Infer is, Mrs. McLachlan decided, she is most certainly not a student witch. As if she could read her nanny's thoughts, Damp wriggled round in her lap and peered intently into Mrs. McLachlan's face.

  “Not like it,” she stated. “Nasty nasty yuck lady.”

  “Absolutely,” agreed Mrs. McLachlan. “Stay away from her, pet. She's verrry, very dangerous.”

  “Hot, hot burrrny?” the baby asked, her brow furrowed with the seriousness of the question.

  “Very,” said Mrs. McLachlan, pouring a capful of bubble bath into the stream running out of the cold tap. The bathwater turned a delicate rose-pink, and the air filled with the fragrance of strawberries. Damp sighed happily and laid her head against Mrs. McLachlan's comforting chest.

  Out of earshot of the guests on the lawn, Signor and Signora Strega-Borgia were having a hissed conference in the kitchen.

  “Baci, you can't be serious. You mean to tell me that we've just been drinking coffee brewed from rodent droppings?”

  “Um . . . not exactly rodent droppings, darling. Don't worry, they were just freeze-dried guinea-pig droppings that I'd stored in an old coffee jar. An understandable mistake—”

  “An understandable mistake for Marie Bain, perhaps, but I'm not angry at her. How was she to know? It's you that's responsible. What were you thinking of? What sort of lunatic stores feces in her kitchen? And why?”

  “It was for a tincture, Luciano. I didn't think—”

  “That's the problem in a nutshell. You never think.” Unable to stop himself, Luciano launched into Italian opera mode. His chest swelled, his eyes glittered, and his gestures grew wildly expansive. Shamefully aware that he was behaving badly, he listened in horror as he heard himself continue, “You didn't think about your family when you invited all these weirdos to stay. You didn't think how we'd feel having our house taken over by incantation-muttering witches. You didn't think about our health when you filled our house with jars of biological hazards. I'm going to bed before I break out in boils from another of your exercises in magical incompetence.”

  There was a crash as the kitchen door banged shut, and then came the thunder of footsteps stamping upstairs. Unobserved in the china cupboard, tucked away in a corner of the kitchen, Tarantella rolled her eyes and applied another coat of lipstick to her already alarmingly pink mouthparts. The tarantula peered out at where Signora Strega-Borgia sat sniffling and dabbing her eyes at the kitchen table. Such trauma and fuss, Tarantella thought. Far better just to eat one's spouse when he starts getting lippy.

  Night Moves

  Sitting bolt upright and fully dressed on her bed, Mrs. McLachlan was waiting for the household to retire. Given that twelve guests currently roamed the corridors of StregaSchloss, this was taking longer than usual. Water coursed along ancient copper pipes as toilets were flushed and baths drawn. The traffic of feet up and down stairs had gone on for hours. After a prolonged wailing session, Nestor had finally succumbed to slumber in his corner of the dungeon, allowing his fellow beasts to catch some sleep before the baby dragon woke for the four o'clock feed.

  When all had been quiet for half an hour, Mrs. McLachlan stood up, checked that her bedroom door was locked, and took a small rolled-up rug out from its hiding place at the bottom of her wardrobe. Placing this in the middle of the bedroom floor, she unrolled it, carefully untangling its tattered fringe. The rug was ancient, woven by some unknown hand hundreds of years before, and now its silk threads were faded and worn, their complex pattern of interwoven stars and spirals nearly invisible with age. Drawing her bedroom curtains back and opening the window wide, Mrs. McLachlan looked out at the meadow beyond, noting with satisfaction that all was quiet and still. Patting her pocket to confirm that she had the magical Soul Mirror safely stowed away, she drew a deep breath.

  “Right,” she said to herself. “Time for lame excuses and apologetic groveling . . .” And crouching down to kneel on the floor, she crawled across onto the rug feeling faintly foolish. She maneuvered herself carefully into the middle and wriggled into position, keeping one hand firmly on the floorboards. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she snatched her hand off the floor and grabbed a handful of the fringe at her feet. The rug rippled and flapped, as if giant gusts of air were circling beneath it. Then, with a shudder, it rose swiftly into the air and hurled itself and its passenger through the open window at an indecent speed, causing Mrs. McLachlan's hair to come unpinned and stream out behind her.

  She arrived at the library with minutes to spare. Placing her hand on the ground, she slid gingerly off the rug and rolled it up, tucking it under her arm as she pushed her way through a small bronze-paneled door.

  “We're just about to close,” the librarian informed her, taking in the nanny's disheveled appearance and emitting a faint tut as he saw what she was holding out to him.

  “I wondered when you were going to bring that back,” he said, drawing down his thick black brows till they joined in a furrow above his nose. “What's the excuse this time?”

  Mrs. McLachlan sighed. The problem with borrowing things from the library was remembering to return them on time. “I'm so sorry,” she said simply. “I'll try to do better in the future—it's just I'm so busy, it's quite hard for me to find a moment. Actually, I almost forgot I had this.”

  The librarian ran a handheld scanner across the returned artifact and pursed his lips. “Six months you've had this. I'm going to have to impose the maximum fine. There have been plenty of other wannabe mind readers wanting to borrow it. The soul mirror is one of our more popular items. . . . Take a seat while I dig out your file.”

  Mrs. McLachlan sank into a low chair and watched, as the librarian clip-clopped across the floor to place the returned object carefully in one of the glass-fronted cabinets that lined the walls. The library consisted of this one stone-walled room, dotted here and there with small tables and deep, comfortable chairs. A fire glowed dimly in a large marble fireplace, and the room was lit by tall be
eswax candles. Tiny oil-burners on the tables gave off the mixed scents of myrrh, rosemary, and juniper, and the calming sound of running water came from a lion's-head fountain in a corner by the door.

  There wasn't a single book to be seen.

  Remembering why she was here, Mrs. McLachlan cleared her throat and said, “Actually, I'd like to borrow something else.”

  The librarian ignored this, busying himself with accessing her records on a wall-mounted screen. He was completely naked, as centaurs tend to be, but as a concession toward his role of librarian he wore a metal collar round his neck inscribed with the word ALPHA and had woven his chest hair into a single braid that swung heavily down to his hooves.

  “I need a shield,” Mrs. McLachlan continued, her voice betraying some of her concern about the dangers of Fiamma d'Infer.

  “They're all out on loan.” The librarian swished his tail for emphasis. “Terribly popular at the moment, shields. Last year it was laser lances, year before—”

  “A Quikunpik, then,” Mrs. McLachlan interrupted, getting up and crossing the floor to stand beside the librarian. “Surely you've got one of those?”

  “I'll look.” The little centaur scrolled down the list of items owned by the library until he came to the Q's. “Quark-espresso, Qualmudes, Quibbles, Quick-ees . . . Ah, here we are, Quikunpik. Nope, sorry, it's not due back until tomorrow.”

  “Well, what have you got?” said Mrs. McLachlan with a faint edge of desperation, her eyes rapidly trawling the display cases around her. Her gaze fell on a small silver clock the size of a pocket watch, which appeared and disappeared with each passing second. Tick—there it was; tick—there it wasn't. The effect was oddly mesmerizing, and her thoughts drifted pleasantly for a few seconds until, recalling the urgency of her visit here, she gave a small shiver and turned back to face the librarian.

  “What does that little clock do?”

  “It's an update on our old Time Flies™—remember those horribly inaccurate bluebottles that dumped you at various unpredictable points in time? Such a pain . . . Anyway, this is the new and improved version, 24-hour clock with state-of-the-art Moebius drive, infinitely pre-programmable for accurate entry and exit. It's known as the Alarming Clock.”

  “Not the most reassuring of names,” murmured Mrs. McLachlan, her attention caught by the flickering device as it winked into being and promptly disappeared again.

  “I imagine they called it ‘alarming' because of the size of the instruction manual.” The librarian sighed, producing a large paperback book of similar dimensions to the telephone directory for Mexico City. “Now don't be put off,” he warned, passing this tome to Mrs. McLachlan and opening the display case to remove the Alarming Clock.

  Mrs. McLachlan waited, leafing idly through the pages of dense print and wondering when, if ever, she would have time to get to grips with the complex volume of instructions. The librarian passed her the Alarming Clock, logged the withdrawal into his computer, and escorted Mrs. McLachlan out.

  “Sorry to rush you,” he said, opening the door onto the night. “Normally I'd prefer to go through the instructions with you, but I simply haven't enough time. Just remember two things: always carry spare batteries wherever you go and, when you leave your destination, be it in the past or the future, be sure never to take anything back with you. No extra luggage, no tourist tat, and no souvenirs. . . . And a warning. If you're late bringing this back, it'll be a far more severe punishment than a mere fine.”

  A chill gust of air blew through the library door, causing the twin shadows cast by the centaur and the nanny to dance in the flickering candlelight.

  “Good luck.” The librarian stepped aside to let Mrs. McLachlan pass. “Bon voyage . . .”

  Weirdm@il

  The following dawn, returning to StregaSchloss after a dip in Lochnagargoyle, the beasts halted at the edge of the meadow, somewhat perplexed by the sight that greeted them up ahead. Several figures lay on the lawn, their contorted bodies rendered ghostlike by the early morning mist that wrapped round their twisted limbs and hung damply above the grass, dotting everything at ground level with chilly dew. Strange grunts and occasional roars of pain disturbed the silence, demonstrating to the watching beasts that all the figures were alive, even if horribly injured.

  “What d'you think happened to them?” Sab whispered, at a loss for what to do next.

  “They weren't there when we left the house,” Ffup said, raising a pawful of lurid pink talons to scratch the top of her head. “Whatever it was must have taken place while we were down at the lochside.”

  One of the figures heaved itself into a sitting position and, much to the beasts' confusion, dragged a leg over its head and curled it round the back of its neck. With a wail of agony, it toppled over and lay facedown on the grass.

  “Oh, the poor thing,” groaned Ffup, turning away in horror.

  “Come on, guys, we'd better go and see how we can help.” Tock lolloped ahead, disappearing into the meadow, his passage marked by a thrashing trail of green as he trampled the grasses under his paws.

  But when the beasts arrived on the lawn, far from being greeted as welcome agents of rescue, they found themselves being rudely rejected as unwanted gate-crashers. The contorted bodies belonged to seven of the houseguests, none of whom were even remotely grateful for the arrival of the beasts—who stood panting in their midst, offering help, medical aid, and the possibility of ambulances.

  “Do bog off, would you?” Ariadne Ventete muttered as Knot attempted to pat her consolingly on her back. “Eurrrch. I loathe dogs. Don't let it breathe on me.”

  Tock ambled over to where Black Douglas lay on his stomach, his legs twisted up over his spine, his head straining painfully backward till it touched his feet.

  “Bad luck,” the crocodile murmured sympathetically. “Can I get you anything? Some Tylenol? Aspirin? Would a massage help? My back goes like that sometimes—”

  Black Douglas collapsed suddenly, his legs crashing down on the grass, his face following seconds later. His shoulders shook and he emitted little sobbing sounds.

  “Oh lord,” Tock breathed, aghast. “Guys, get over here. I think we're about to lose this one.”

  Black Douglas rolled over onto his back and opened his eyes.

  “Yup,” said Tock sadly. “I'll try and do some lifesaving stuff here, but while I'm busy giving mouth-to-mouth, one of you run and call an ambulance.” Sab obediently bolted off to the house, leaving Ffup and Knot to watch in admiration as Tock bent over Black Douglas. The crocodile took a deep breath and grabbed the man's face between his front paws.

  “Listen, Tick,” Black Douglas growled. “One kiss and you're history.” He sprang upright and elbowed Tock aside. “Pin back your ears, reptile. We're not ill, not injured, and definitely not in need of medical assistance. We. Are. Practicing. Yoga. Understand?” Seeing the total lack of comprehension on all the beasts' faces, he seized Tock and rolled the alarmed crocodile onto his back. “Relax,” he commanded. “You're dreadfully tense. Look, you're clenching your jaw. . . .”

  “Help,” mumbled Tock. “Mnnng . . . urk . . . aaowww!”

  “There,” said Black Douglas, grabbing the crocodile's tail and expertly twisting it into a loose knot. “Now we'll just ease your legs over your back, like so—”

  “Nooooo,” wailed Tock. “I'm not designed to bend that wayyyy—OH-NOOO-AAAOWWW!'

  “That's what all beginners say,” said Black Douglas disgustedly. “Just relax, you great wuss—it only hurts because you're fighting it.”

  “Too right, I'm fighting it!” howled Tock. “Knot, Ffup—do something. HELP MEEEE!”

  Knot shuffled up and leant over until his furry face was next to Black Douglas's. “Read my woolly, unwashed lips,” he said firmly. “Put the crocodile down.”

  “Yeah,” added Ffup, leaning over Knot's shoulder and grinning menacingly. “Or else—”

  Sensibly deciding that now was perhaps not the best time to win the beasts over t
o the joys of yoga, Black Douglas released the moaning crocodile and got to his feet. “No hard feelings?” he said, holding out a hand to Tock.

  “No hard feelings?” squeaked the crocodile. “I've no hard anythings, thanks to you. You've turned me into jelly, you brute. I don't think I'll ever walk again.” And followed by Knot and Ffup, Tock limped off across the lawn toward the solace of StregaSchloss.

  Seeking to avoid his mother's eccentric houseguests, Titus had forgone breakfast. He was closeted in the map room, hunched over his laptop, and close to despair.

  “Come on,” he begged the lit screen in front of him. “Please? Don't do this to me.”

  An internal chittering sound alerted Titus to the fact that the laptop had, not surprisingly, failed to respond to his spoken pleas. Onscreen, a dialogue box popped up bearing the glad tidings:

  Mail could not be received at this time.

  An error type h:ex//yt occurred.

  Titus laid his head on the keyboard and groaned. This was just so not fair, he decided. For weeks now his laptop had been playing a perverse game of hide-and-seek with his e-mail. Time after time, he'd log on, attempt to download his e-mail, and up would come several dialogue box variants on a theme of: YOUR MAIL? EH? WHAT MAIL? WHO ARE YOU, ANYWAY, DEMANDING MAIL? COME TO THINK OF IT, WHO AM I? AM I A COMPUTER? WHAT IF I'M JUST A LITTLE LUMP OF EXPENSIVE GRAY PLASTIC? AM I GOING TO CRASH?

  In vain, Titus had tried to reassure his neurotic computer that indeed it was a mega-machine, a brain the size of planet Earth and enough processing power to launch a spacecraft into orbit, if required. But back would come the message that his laptop was currently enjoying the cyber-equivalent of door shut, lights off, and fingers jammed firmly into ears.