by Debi Gliori
“Not an animal,” Titus whispered, “a demon.”
“And for your next question, ‘What is the Chronostone?' Pass. All I know is that it's something that she and her ‘Boss' want to get their hands on. Final question for many million lire: the ‘last male soul' and the ‘baby magus'? Come on, you know this one.”
“Me?” Titus volunteered in a shaky voice. “I'm the last male soul? And Damp? Is she the baby magus?”
“Absolutely. Well done. Is that the smell of burning brain cells I detect? OUCH! Gently with that dressing, you brute.”
“You're just lucky that I can overcome my loathing of spiders,” Titus muttered, picking Tarantella up in his hands and gently securing the dressing in place with a tiny Band-Aid. “I'm going to put my shirt back on, tuck you inside it, and find Mrs. McLachlan. We have to warn her there's a monster in the house. Do me a favor and don't wriggle around. You're exceptionally hairy and you make me itch.”
“And you are exceptionally dim and you make me despair—” Tarantella's words were muffled in Titus's T-shirt as, opening the bedroom door and checking that the corridor was empty, he set off to find the nanny.
...and Mrs. McLachlan Spills the Salt
As instructed by Signor Strega-Borgia, Latch sounded the gong for dinner and scratched his gnat bites absentmindedly. He'd lit a small fire in the library, for the evening had turned chilly and fingers of mist were creeping up toward StregaSchloss from the waters of Lochnagargoyle.
Chewing the remains of a toasted shuttlecock, Tock crawled out of the moat and picked a water lily to tuck behind his ear by way of ornament. He gazed at the lit windows of StregaSchloss in happy anticipation of dinner before lolloping across the rose-quartz drive toward the front door. Just as he reached the first stone step the sound of a muted squeal caused him to stop and listen. It came again, apparently from ground level—the unmistakable sound of some creature in pain. As a vegetarian, he piously hoped that it wasn't someone else's dinner putting up a protest, but nonetheless he peered anxiously around, wondering where the sound was coming from. Bats flitted across the darkening sky, leaving their roost under the eaves of StregaSchloss to head for their nocturnal hunting grounds. The crocodile briefly entertained the notion that what he'd heard was the sound of the bat's high-pitched sonar squeaks; he was about to climb the remaining steps and head indoors when the sound came again, louder and clearer, repeating one word over and over in a rising scale of terror.
“Help—help—help—help!”
All at once Tock realized that the sound was coming from the dungeons. A ventilation shaft that allowed air to pass to and from the subterranean passages under StregaSchloss had a mesh-covered outlet next to the front door. Something is happening down there, Tock thought, and by the sound of it, the something was happening to Nestor. The baby dragon's shrieks were so shrill that they carried in the still air, out across the meadow, along the jetty, and down into the deeps of Lochnagargoyle. From a wish to offer assistance coupled with a strong desire to make Nestor shut up, Tock bounded up the steps and was dutifully cleaning his claws on the boot scraper when from the direction of the loch came a powerful roar—the awesome lung capacity of its unknown maker causing the crocodile to abandon all attempts at personal hygiene and scrabble frantically into the safety of StregaSchloss.
Chest heaving and eyes wide, he slammed the door behind him and sank back against it with a little gasp as Mrs. McLachlan came into view, sweeping down the stairs with Damp in her arms. Something about the nanny's demeanor set off alarm bells in Tock's head. Looking down at his claws, he realized that he had tracked rather a large quantity of slime from the bottom of the moat across the threshold of StregaSchloss, and by the expression on Mrs. McLachlan's face, it appeared that this lapse of protocol had not escaped her attention either.
“Wash those filthy, dirrrty claws before you come to the table,” she said, turning her back and striding along the corridor to the kitchen.
“But—but—” Tock bleated, “there's something happening in the dungeons. . . . Nestor—”
“Nestor's mother will look after him,” Mrs. McLachlan said over her shoulder, her voice chilly enough to freeze-dry the forlorn water lily drooping from Tock's ear, “and unless you wish to eat your dinner in the moat, you had better do as you're told.”
From experience, Tock knew that resistance was futile, so he opened the door to the downstairs bathroom and meekly obeyed. Such was his fear of Mrs. McLachlan's ire that Tock didn't complain that some unknown houseguest appeared to have shaved off their chin warts with a blunt fish knife and had left all the grisly evidence of this do-it-yourself surgery dotted around the porcelain of the sink. When he emerged, squeaky clean and redolent of lily-scented soap, it was to find Titus standing in the middle of the hall, apparently engaged in conversation with his T-shirt.
“Would you quit that?” he demanded, unaware that he was the subject of the crocodile's puzzled scrutiny. “I think we've just missed her. She's probably taken Damp in to dinner. No—ahhh—urgggh, you're so hairy—no, don't.”
From above came the murmur of many voices, doors opening and closing, and approaching footsteps. The houseguests had responded to Latch's summons and were gathering for their nocturnal assault on the larders of StregaSchloss.
“For heaven's sake,” Titus hissed, peering down inside his T-shirt and, to the bewilderment of Tock, addressing one or both of his nipples. “Now I'm going to have to take you in to dinner. Keep still, or you might end up losing more than a leg—”
With a small honk, Tock bolted along the corridor to the kitchen and headed inside. The first guest had appeared at the head of the staircase and was sniffing appreciatively at the aromas wafting out from the kitchen.
“Something smells heavenly.” Hecate Brinstone hastened downstairs and smiled at Titus, her face still horribly swollen from her earlier encounter with the enraged hornets. “I look an absolute fright,” she sighed, catching sight of her reflection in the highly polished case of the grandfather clock.
“Um—no—er, I've seen far worse frights,” Titus confessed with a teenager's awkward gallantry. “You look—um—fine.”
A faint tchhhh came from inside his T-shirt as, flushing pink, Titus offered the witch his arm and accompanied her in to dinner.
There were still two empty places laid at the kitchen table as Luciano staggered to the sink with a cauldron of pasta. Tipping it with effort into a massive colander, he turned to the guests waiting at the table and wondered out loud what was keeping Pandora and Fiamma d'Infer. Just then, the missing witch appeared from the unexpected location of the wine cellar, a bottle of vintage Barolo in each hand. Luciano abandoned his pasta and leapt across the kitchen to block her path.
“I don't wish to sound churlish, but I really would prefer it if you would put those bottles back where you found them.” Luciano attempted to minimize the embarrassment of ordering a guest to unhand the wine by lowering his voice to an almost inaudible whisper, but his face betrayed his anger at Fiamma's presumption that she could plunder the wine cellar at will.
“I thought these would be quite gluggable with your heroic culinary efforts,” the witch sneered, her body language indicating that she had little intention of obeying her host.
“Those are not ‘gluggable' wines, Miss d'Infer.” Luciano reached out to take the bottles from her and met with resistance. “Those are priceless vintages laid down with a special occasion in mind.” Luciano began to tug at the bottles, having to redouble his efforts with every word he gasped out, as it began to dawn on him that this witch was ten times stronger than he. “This. Evening. Is. Not. Special. Enough.”
The kitchen door opened to admit Pandora, who hesitated, unable to take her place at the table until Fiamma and Luciano moved out of the way. Slipping into the kitchen in Pandora's wake, Multitudina and Terminus scuttled across the stone floor and vanished beneath the dresser, not swiftly enough to avoid being spotted by Fiamma.
“Eughhh—
disgusting!” she spat, releasing the bottles so abruptly that Luciano nearly lost his balance. “Running around the kitchen. Honestly, Baci darling, what with rat pee in the fish, rodent droppings in the coffee, and now free-range vermin at the dinner table, I'm beginning to wonder why on earth I ever agreed to come here. . . .”
Signora Strega-Borgia blushed deeply. As if watching Luciano playing tug-of-war with the bottles of Barolo wasn't humiliating enough, now to be confronted with her own utter lack of skills in the domestic-hygiene department was mortifying beyond belief. She looked up at where Fiamma was still standing, tapping one foot impatiently and staring at her as if to say, Right, serf, do something about this.
“Pandora.” Baci's voice was icy. “I've told you countless times before about letting your rats run free. For the last time, I do not permit free-range rodents to roam around the house. Either you keep them under control or I am going to get a cat to do the job for you.” Turning to Fiamma, she continued, her voice warm and conciliatory, “I do apologize for my daughter's disgusting practices. Honestly . . . children. Do take a seat, Fiamma. Pandora, get rid of them now.”
Sitting round the corner of the table from his mother, Titus was aghast. Poor Pandora, he thought, she loves those rats. And if Mum finds out that I've got a free-range tarantula down my shirt, she'll go bananas. Why on earth is she being so nice to that spider-murdering woman? Doesn't she know that she's dangerous?
Next to him, Mrs. McLachlan patted his arm. “Pass the salt, please, dear,” she murmured, just as Luciano brought the first tureen of pasta to the table.
Hunched on the floor in front of the dresser, Pandora was endeavoring to entice her rats out from their hiding place. Her face on fire from the humiliation of public chastisement, she peered into the darkness to where the rats cowered behind a barrier of dust balls and long-lost plastic medicine spoons.
“A c-c-c-cat?” Terminus stuttered. “She can't be serious, can she?”
“What's a ‘cat'?” Multitudina was utterly confused. In all her lifetime she'd never encountered one, and was at a loss to understand what all the fuss was about.
Terminus, her literary skills honed by Tarantella's tutelage, was far more aware of the many dangers lurking in the world outside StregaSchloss. “Big, furry things with teeth,” she explained. “Sometimes they vanish, leaving their smiles hanging in the air; occasionally they wear boots. They're renowned for riding pillion on broomsticks and hanging out with royalty, and they live on a diet of rats and cream.”
“What's our trained biped doing?” Multitudina asked, distracted by the sight of Pandora.
“Trying to catch our attention, I believe.” Terminus watched as Pandora squeezed her arm underneath the dresser with a small lump of Parmesan extended in her grasp.
“How thoughtful,” Multitudina murmured, reaching out and snatching the cheese greedily. “And look, she's brought some more. . . .”
Pandora's hand withdrew and reappeared slightly farther away, holding a fresh piece of Parmesan. Little by little she coaxed the rats out from under the dresser until, drowsy and replete with cheese, they allowed her to pick them up and remove them from the kitchen.
“Oh my goodness!” Mrs. McLachlan blurted. “I'm so sorry. Heavens, that was clumsy of me,” as with a dramatic gesture akin to one of Luciano's operatic armsweeps, the nanny overturned the salt dish, spilling most of its contents across the table onto Fiamma's lap. With a hiss of annoyance, the witch sprang to her feet and ran out of the kitchen before anyone noticed that, in common with all her demon kin, she was unable to tolerate prolonged contact with salt.
Mrs. McLachlan watched her hasty exit and shrugged apologetically. “Dear, dear. That seems a bit extreme—” she continued, absolving herself. “It's only salt, when all's said and done. Never mind, at least I didn't spill it in the food. Mmmmm, this is simply delicious—my compliments to the chefs.”
Sitting farther down the table, the estate lawyer gazed at his plate in dismay. He loathed Mediterranean food, and this meal confirmed all his worst nightmares about dealing with Italian clients. Still, he comforted himself, once the boy has signed the paperwork and banked his inheritance, my days of dining with the Borgias will be over. At long last I'll be able to sever my connection with this dodgy family and return to a career that doesn't involve laundering money for the criminal underworld. Under the pretext of dabbing his mouth with his napkin, he gazed at the bent heads around the table. Eighteen of them, he counted rapidly, plus the rat-girl, the woman who'd received a lapful of salt, plus—he swallowed rapidly—plus those . . . creatures . . . slobbering and dribbling at the other end of the table. He shuddered at the sheer number of mouths avidly consuming bowlfuls of disgusting pasta and mentally consigned the entire population of StregaSchloss to perdition. Meeting Titus's eyes across the table, the lawyer attempted a smile, which faded rapidly as he realized that something large was moving beneath the child's shirt. A lump the size of a tennis ball appeared to be climbing up from his navel to his throat. The boy dropped his gaze to his lap and color flooded his cheeks.
Mumbling an excuse, Titus fled from the kitchen, the speed of his exit causing Tarantella to tumble down to his waistband moaning, “Give me a break—ow, slow down! That hurts, you cretin.”
Ignoring her, Titus took the stairs two at a time and arrived, breathing heavily, at his sister's bedroom door. “Pan, it's me. Open up.”
There was a clunk as Pandora undid the lock and let him in. Titus immediately dragged his T-shirt hem up to his throat, exposing Tarantella clinging to his navel as if her life depended on it.
“Tarantella!” Pandora gasped. “What're you doing with him? Oh no. What's happened to your leg? Oh, you poor, poor thing.”
“Don't. Just don't.” The tarantula allowed Pandora to pick her up. “Don't leak all over me. Oh, for heaven's sake, I may as well save my breath—”
“Poor T-Ta—” Pandora choked and could go no further, as her nose began to run in sympathy with her eyes.
“She's okay, really.” Titus attempted to offer a small crumb of comfort to his sobbing sister.
“Oh, am I?” Tarantella glared at Titus. “And since when did you become an expert on arachnid well-being? Would you stop sprinkling me, girl? I am not fine, but I'm not about to pop my clogs either. I'm in constant pain and I'm probably going to limp for the rest of my life, but I beg you, don't add drowning to my list of woes.”
“But your poor l-l—” Pandora spluttered.
“Say it, don't spray it,” Tarantella snapped. “My poor leg is still jammed in the hoof of that monster downstairs. Forget my leg. If I can, so can you. Unless you wish even more terrible events to take place, you have to alert Mrs. McLachlan to the presence of a monster in our midst.”
“Pardon?” Pandora blew her nose and peered at the tarantula through red-rimmed eyes. “What monster? Did I miss something?”
“Give me strength,” Tarantella moaned. “For a supposedly superior species, Homo sapiens are a terrifyingly unobservant bunch. Titus, fill your sister in on the details—I'm pooped. I simply cannot summon up another ounce of energy. Before I keel over, would you please find me a safe place to sleep—one that doesn't tick or sound the hour like my last sanctuary did? I'm too ill to spin or even climb into a web and I cannot keep my . . . eyes . . . open . . . a minute . . .” The tarantula slumped in Pandora's hands, her eyes closed and her mouth relaxing into a tiny pout.
From the hall downstairs, they could hear Mrs. McLachlan calling them.
“Titus, Pandora. Hurry up. Your dinner's growing cold.”
“I'll put her in the old doll's house,” Pandora decided, crossing her bedroom to the shelves where her favorite possessions from earlier childhood were displayed. The old doll's house was an antique, passed down from Signora Strega-Borgia to Pandora, and ultimately destined for Damp. Every item of furniture within had been made by hand, down to the tiny carpets that had been embroidered in silk by one of Signora Strega-Borgia's great-aunts—wh
o, over the course of a decade, lovingly stitched tiny tapestries designed specifically for the interior of the doll's house. Pandora unhooked the front and carefully placed the slumbering Tarantella in the master bedroom, lifting the minute goosedown comforter from the four-poster bed and tucking the spider in before drawing the bed's curtains closed around her.
“Come on,” Titus urged. “I'm starving.”
“You have to tell me about the monster first.” Pandora turned out the light and opened the door to the hall just as Fiamma d'Infer strode past, giving the children not so much as a passing glance on her way back downstairs.
“Right. I think I'll just lock my door,” Pandora muttered, closing it gently behind them. Titus nodded his approval and began to explain in whispers about Tarantella's brush with death.
“That's her. She's the monster. The one who had the fight with Dad over the wine. The one who moaned about the rats. She tried to kill Tarantella and—”
“What? And no one has told her to pack her bags and go? I'll soon see to that—”
“NO! Pan, no way. Don't go near her. Promise me you won't. She's not what she seems. . . .”
They had reached the kitchen door and hesitated in the corridor outside.
“Pandora,” Titus pleaded, “I know you love your spider and anyone who harms so much as a hair on her body ought, in your opinion, to be torn limb from limb but—we're not dealing with just anyone here. That woman . . . she's a demon in human form. She's after far bigger prey than a wee spider. She wants Damp—and—and, um, me, actually.”
“Damp? And you? What, like a kidnapping?”
“No—uh, I'm not exactly clear about what bits of Damp and me she's interested in, but Tarantella seemed to think that Mrs. McLachlan would understand what is going on and would know what to do. So, we have to pretend nothing is wrong, go back and finish dinner, and then try to talk to Mrs. McLachlan without anyone overhearing, and tell her everything.”