by Debi Gliori
With hardly any hesitation, Pandora plucked an atrocity from her sketchy memory of history lessons. “Um . . . Hiroshima. The atomic bomb. I'd try and undo that one.”
“And how would you do that?” Mrs. McLachlan prompted. “Stop the inventor of the atomic bomb from being born? But how would you propose to do that? Cause his mother to have a fatal accident before his birth? Smother him in his crib?”
“NO!” Pandora was outraged. “That would be murder.”
“Some would say an insignificant act of murder compared with the destruction wreaked by his invention. Let's try another scenario: perhaps you could sabotage the bomb, cause it to fall harmlessly into the sea instead of in the middle of a Japanese city?”
“Yes, that's a much better idea, but—” Pandora hesitated.
“Exactly. But. But, in a few years' time, the people who rely on that sea for their survival would be dying by the thousands, their livelihood contaminated, their unborn children damaged beyond medical repair. And maybe—who knows?—one of those children, but for the bomb that fell in the sea, might have grown up to become the greatest peacemaker in the history of the planet. What appears to be a simple black-and-white puzzle is, in reality, a minefield etched in varying shades of gray. What we would call a moral labyrinth.”
“Um . . . ahhh . . .” To Pandora's annoyance, language was deserting her.
“Listen to me, child. The Alarming Clock is not a plaything. It is a powerful and dangerous tool. It was designed to be used for seeing into the future, and thus to return to the present forewarned. That's exactly what you and your brother did—” The nanny held up her hands to forestall Pandora's attempt to deny Titus's involvement. “I know you both used it, and I'm beginning to wonder if it was something that Titus witnessed with the Alarming Clock that caused him to pass on his inheritance to that thug. A brave attempt to avoid the fate you both foresaw outlined for him. However . . . certain rules of conduct apply to those who use the Alarming Clock, and one of them is always to carry spare batteries.”
Pandora looked down at her hands and blushed.
“Another rule,” the nanny continued, “is no messing. No tweaking of the past or the future. No minor adjustments. No leaving of litter and no taking of souvenirs. You children have no idea how narrowly you missed destroying everything you love.”
“But then why have you—?” Pandora's voice was very small and frightened.
“Why have I got the Alarming Clock?” Mrs. McLachlan stood up and extended a hand to help Pandora to her feet. “I needed something to protect you children from that—fiend.” She nodded toward the hallway, where Fiamma d'Infer's slumped body was just visible from the drawing room. “I wanted to borrow a shield, but all I could get was an Alarming Clock.”
Pandora's mouth opened, and she managed half a question before a frown from Mrs. McLachlan made her halt in mid-sentence.
“Dear child”—the nanny smiled, shaking her head slowly—“you have the most inquiring mind it has ever been my plea-sure to encounter. Most people sleepwalk through their entire lives, their minds deliberately closed to the millions of possibilities open to them. Your parents and your brother are hardly aware of anything that goes on outside the limits of their own heads. But you and Damp are both explorers, your compasses permanently fixed on some distant star—your bags packed, and your little boats gently rocking at anchor—ready at any time to set sail for uncharted territories. For now, think of the Alarming Clock and where it came from as places that aren't on a map. You've heard rumors that they exist, but either they're too far away for your little boat to reach, or the seas are too unpredictable. And thus, for now, you have to wait and dream of a day when you find the map, or build a bigger boat—or even come on board with a more experienced navigator.”
Gazing into Mrs. McLachlan's shining eyes, Pandora was reminded of the old chart downstairs in the map room, the one hanging over the mantelpiece with illegible writing and “here beye monsteres” written in the fading script of a long-dead ancestor. Titus hadn't given it a second glance, his attention as ever focused on his computer screen in preference to the larger world beyond his eyes. Mrs. McLachlan picked her way around the sleeping witches to the window where Lucifer lay snoring on the polished floorboards. She bent down and removed the cell phone from his unresisting hand. Pandora watched as Mrs. McLachlan stood up, took aim, and hurled the offending object through a gap in the bramble thicket. The phone flew through the air and plunged with a splash into the mud at the bottom of the moat, giving out a small eruption of bubbles that meant its circuitry had been fatally flooded with moat-water.
“There,” the nanny said, dusting her hands and turning back to face Pandora. “That should do the trick.” She reached under Lucifer and retrieved his handgun, engaging the safety switch before tucking the weapon into the waistband of her skirt.
“Why not just get rid of it?” Pandora asked, then lowered her head into her hands in embarrassment. “There I go again—another question.”
“Because it might come in handy when we wake everybody up,” Mrs. McLachlan explained, nudging Lucifer with her foot. “This one doesn't understand anything unless it's accompanied by a gun. He's a nuisance, but he's nothing like as dangerous as the demon in the hall. Come on, let's get it over with, shall we?”
Twenty minutes later they emerged, soaked to the skin, from the waters of the moat. Lacking the tools to hack their way through the thorn-studded branches enveloping StregaSchloss, Pandora and Mrs. McLachlan had crawled through the partially flooded tunnels that ran beneath the house like a granite honeycomb, forming a link between the dungeons and the moat. Shivering, they ran across the meadow and halted at the foot of a rowan tree.
“Are you sure this will work?” Pandora peered up at the leafy branches, in some doubt as to whether such a fragile-looking tree could withstand the ferocity of a thwarted demon.
“It's the best I can think of right now.” Mrs. McLachlan began to tear rowan branches off the main trunk with an energy that belied her age. “And with a hefty sprinkling of salt, it might afford us some protection.”
Carrying Damp, who clutched a dog-eared picture book, Signora Strega-Borgia walked past Fiamma d'Infer with an astounding lack of curiosity as to why the demon resembled nothing so much as an oven-ready turkey. Trussed in a colorful selection of Pandora's tights and scarves, liberally sprinkled with salt, and surrounded by sprigs of greenery, Fiamma looked as if she were lacking only an accompaniment of roast potatoes in order to become the main course of Sunday lunch. Pandora and Mrs. McLachlan followed Baci and Damp into the drawing room, and all four resumed their positions on the sofa in front of the vase of roses.
“Ready?” Mrs. McLachlan paused, smiling broadly at Damp.
“Now what?” Signora Strega-Borgia inquired peevishly, wishing her own magic powers were less ineffectual.
“Now we undo the spell,” Mrs. McLachlan replied.
“I'm not exactly like the handsome prince in your picture books,” Pandora said apologetically, kneeling down beside Titus and smiling up at Damp. The little girl watched her big sister bend down over her big brother and clapped her hands in delight as Pandora planted a smacking kiss right on Titus's lips. To Mrs. McLachlan's amusement, Pandora grimaced, then swiftly wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Titus's eyes flickered as he woke up, peering blearily at his sister. “Eughhh,” he remarked pleasantly, rolling over and sitting up. Around him, the waking witches were doing the same, sleepy and bewildered, but immediately snapping back to full consciousness as Lucifer roared in outrage at the thwarting of his plan.
“EEEK SQUEE URK,” he bawled, raking through his pockets in disbelief.
“Your phone has gone, Mr. Borgia,” Mrs. McLachlan informed him, crossing the room with Lucifer's Beretta held firmly in one hand. “And unless you wish to join it at the bottom of the moat, I suggest you make your farewells and depart.”
“Eek?” Lucifer peered at the nanny in some co
nfusion.
“I have your gun here, so don't waste your time looking for it. You've got what you came for, so kindly don't be so ill-mannered as to outstay your welcome—” Mrs. McLachlan's tone was breezy, brushing off the astonished gangster as if he posed no more threat than a housefly.
Lucifer gaped, his little pink eyes narrowing as he processed this information. For the first time in his life, he realized he'd met his equal. Snatching his notebook and pen, he rapidly scribbled something, tore the page out, and passed it to Mrs. McLachlan. Without a squeak of good-bye, Don Lucifer di S'Embowelli Borgia turned and walked out through the open windows.
In the stunned silence that followed, they could all hear his measured tread fading away down the drive. Pandora bit her lip and tried to restrain herself from asking what he'd written in his note to Mrs. McLachlan. Titus closed his eyes and hoped he hadn't just condemned his uncle to death by passing on the inheritance, and Signor Luciano Strega-Borgia gave silent thanks for his family's continued survival.
From the hall came an enraged shriek, as Fiamma found herself trussed like a turkey.
“What on earth?” Luciano's head jerked upward as ear-splitting screams echoed round the hall, accompanied by roars so powerful that the floorboards vibrated. Tendrils of yellow fog began to curl round the door to the hall, and the temperature plummeted within the drawing room. The twilit sky outside the windows turned to night, then day, causing the hands on the mantelpiece clock to describe such a rapid orbit that they glowed red-hot, as Fiamma demonstrated the ease with which she could manipulate time itself. As if to underscore this, the grandfather clock, which had stood ticking erratically in the hall for centuries, exploded in a hail of glass and wood, its whirling pendulum spinning into the drawing room and missing Damp by a hair. Ffup snatched Nestor up in her arms as howls of demonic laughter echoed around the hall.
Titus paled. He knew that Fiamma was coming for him and Damp. He turned to Mrs. McLachlan and realized with a sickening jolt that she was every bit as petrified as he was.
“Oh dear,” the nanny whispered, aware that rowan branches and salt were about as effective against this demon as bows and arrows against an armored tank. The noise from the hall swelled and grew, causing floorboards in the drawing room to break free of the nails that held them and bang up and down underfoot.
“Stand clear,” Black Douglas commanded, pushing his way past till he stood first in line at the doorway. “Let me deal with this,” and before anyone could stop him, he slipped round the door and vanished into the hall.
Kraken Kin
The first living thing the Sleeper encountered after leaving the loch to answer the distress call of his kin was a strange squeaking thing fleeing along the track. Unable to outrun the vast Sleeper, the squeaking thing had collapsed to its knees, tears rolling down its ruined face as it attempted, he assumed, to beg for mercy. Bending down to give it a good sniff, the Sleeper decided to let it go. For one thing, it appeared to have done something rather unpleasant in its pants, and for another he'd always hated snacking on human flesh—its fatty consistency disagreeing mightily with his digestion.
Turning his back on the gibbering Lucifer di S'Embowelli Borgia, the Sleeper resumed his undulating progress toward StregaSchloss. The meadow presented him with few problems, its grassy sward parting beneath his body like water, but by the time he'd crossed the drive, his tender underbelly was studded with painful little chips of rose quartz, and he was in no mood to be trifled with. The Sleeper barreled through the front door of StregaSchloss, slithered across the hall, and, hearing noises coming from the drawing room, barged right in.
Holding Damp in her arms, Mrs. McLachlan realized that her only remaining option was to save herself and the little girl. Titus lay on the floor, his eyes open, his chest barely moving. Fiamma d'Infer stood astride him, hunched and waiting for the boy's soul to emerge on its final journey. A ring of green flame surrounded them, forming a barrier that nothing human could cross. First Luciano, then Baci, had tried to rescue their son, and both had been flung aside as they attempted to break through the circle of fire. Fiamma had assumed her true shape, casting off her human disguise like a snakeskin, and causing some of the witches to faint in terror at what was revealed beneath. Discarded socks, scarves, and rowan branches were embedded in the ceiling, witness to the force with which the demon had shed the ties that bound it.
And Pandora? Mrs. McLachlan's mind reeled. Pandora had disappeared completely. One minute she'd been there, trying to shield Titus with her own body, and then. . . . Crushed by her failure to protect all those she had loved, Mrs. McLachlan found her face wet with tears.
“Och no, wee lassie,” she whispered. “I won't let the same thing happen to you. . . .” She hugged Damp tight, giving one last silent plea for some form of divine intercession. She was on the point of pressing the button on her Alarming Clock when help came from a most unlikely source.
“YOU!” roared a voice. “You're the one who knifed ma wee son. Dinnae deny it, you vicious wee dod of pond-life—I can smell ma wee son's blood all over you!”
Mrs. McLachlan's hand paused on the button, her heart hammering in her chest.
“Dadda-Dadda-Dadda,” Nestor squeaked, the unaccustomed words falling from his mouth and causing Ffup to peer at her infant son in some puzzlement.
“Hang oan, son,” the voice commanded as an immense darkness extinguished the ring of flames and arrowed straight for Fiamma d'Infer.
There was a ghastly clotted gargling sound as the demon found itself engulfed in coils of oily black.
“Och, dinnae put up a fight, you,” the voice continued, effortlessly squeezing the life from its prey. A high-pitched scream emerged from the demon's crushed throat as it shape-shifted from demon to witch, then back again, in an attempt to avoid its fate. To Mrs. McLachlan's relief, the black coils merely tightened their grip, squeezing and suffocating until—with a last bellow of rage—the demon expired, with a puff of vile-smelling smoke erupting from its mouth. Titus closed his eyes, curled into a ball, and began to weep, oblivious to the legendary beast that stood over him, the corpse of Fiamma d'Infer clutched in its fatal embrace. Signor and Signora Strega-Borgia knelt by his side, their arms wrapped round their son, giving and drawing scant comfort from the embrace. In between howls, Mrs. McLachlan heard Titus call his lost sister's name, as if by doing so he could turn back the clock. Damp wriggled out of her nanny's arms and wobbled across to fling herself on top of her brother.
“Panda,” she said, her childish abbreviation of Pandora's name redoubling Titus's anguish. “Pandalina,” Damp added, repeating this made-up word with increasing determination until she was yelling, “PandaLINA, PANDALINA,” in an effort to make Titus sit up and take notice. In frustration at her brother's apparent lack of understanding, Damp thumped him over the head with her picture book.
“PAN-DA-LINA IN THE FLOWER!” she shrieked, stamping her feet in a fury.
Mrs. McLachlan's mouth fell open. Damp dropped her picture book on the floor and crawled quickly toward her.
“Damp?” Mrs. McLachlan whispered. “Did you put Pandora in the flower?”
The little girl nodded. At last, her expression seemed to say, someone with a brain round here.
“Like Thumbelina?”
“Panda-lina,” Damp corrected, adding, “Nasty yuck flower.”
“The roses?” Mrs. McLachlan dove across the room and, hardly daring to breathe, searched through the vase of blood-red flowers till she found what she was looking for. So astounded was she that she didn't notice the vast shape of the Sleeper towering behind her, his expression distinctly unfriendly. Tossing Fiamma's corpse aside, he glared down at Mrs. McLachlan.
“You again?” he said with little evidence of delight. “You're the one that woke me up yon time.”
Mrs. McLachlan admitted that yes, regrettably, this was indeed the case.
“And fir whit?” the Sleeper demanded. “To defrost that squitty wee loch? So you and ye
r pals could carry oan fishing? Seems like a pretty dodgy excuse for dragging me back frae the land of nod.”
Mrs. McLachlan agreed, trying to look as apologetic as possible while shielding the flower vase from the Sleeper's gaze.
Across the room, Ffup could be heard muttering to herself. “What nerve. Turns up four months late, no warning, not even a phone call, and does he apologize? I don't think so. Doesn't even so much as give me five minutes' grace to brush my wings, slap some moisturizer on my scales. . . . Just turns up, pulps a guest, and demands his parental rights—”
The Sleeper shook his head and swung round to glower at Ffup. “What're you oan about now, wumman?”
Dwarfed by the gigantic beast, Ffup blinked, shifting Nestor's weight to her other hip. “See this wee beastie I've got attached to my side?” she demanded. “This here's your son. And where were you when I was going through the traumas of dragonbirth? Absent, that's where. Where were you when he wouldn't sleep at night? Ditto. Elsewhere. What happened to all those promises you made me last December?”
“Aww, come oan, hen . . .” The Sleeper looked around in some embarrassment, aware that certain people in the room were paying close attention to Ffup's tirade.
“Don't you ‘come oan, hen' me, you faithless toad,” Ffup shrilled inaccurately. “This poor wee baby needs two parents, not one. He needs a father, not an absent monster whose only claim to fame is for boosting Scotland's tourist trade with rare appearances in Loch Ness. I mean, it's not even as if you've got a proper job. Itinerant monster with special responsibilities for entertaining visiting Americans? And—” She paused, waiting till she had everyone's attention before delivering her parting shot. “—If you think your son's going to be proud to call his daddy ‘Nessie,' you can think again.” With a snort, Ffup turned on her heel and stalked out of the drawing room, with Nestor clinging to her hip. Moments later they could all hear the dungeon door clanging shut.