by Debi Gliori
In obedience to this, the red demon extended a tray on which lay tobacco in all its various forms. Astoroth accepted a small cigar and bent his head to light it at one of the flames that burned continuously in little alcoves round the room. Coughing gratefully, he squatted on his haunches and waited to be summoned.
After what felt like several weeks, the black telephone rang and Astoroth found himself being ushered into the Presence. On trembling legs he walked through a door into a darkness so thick he could almost chew it.
“KNEEL,” came a command, and Astoroth fell to the floor at once.
“GROVEL,” the voice continued, adding, “MORE . . . LOWER . . . UP THE SELF-ABASEMENT FACTOR, WRETCH.”
Taking this last for an instruction, Astoroth obediently retched, gagged, and threw up on the floor. Immediately the lights came on, and he found himself kneeling on a glass floor, beneath which were rumored to burn the eternal fires of the Pit. At a glass table in front of him the Boss pushed his lunch aside with a groan. Snapping his fingers, the First Minister summoned an underling to deal with Astoroth's ejected stomach contents.
“TELL ME, SCUM, WHAT POSSIBLE EXCUSE DO YOU HAVE FOR LOSING MY PRECIOUS CHRONOSTONE?”
“Um.” Astoroth swallowed. “Most Awesome Foulness, if you would just give me one more chance, I'll get it back for you. . . . Please, Master of the Pits, Earl of Earwax, allow me, your devoted slave, to perform this one last service for you—” Aware that he was groveling inexcusably, Astoroth grew silent.
“ONE MORE CHANCE?” The Boss considered this as he glared down to where Astoroth knelt, hands clasped in supplication. “ONE MORE CHANCE? YOU'RE FIRED, REMEMBER? THIS IS NOT NEGOTIABLE. YOU'RE NO LONGER SECOND MINISTER FOR THE HADEAN EXECUTIVE. YOU'RE NOT EVEN A MINOR DEMON WITHOUT PORTFOLIO ANYMORE. YOU'RE LOWER THAN A SUCCUBUS.”
“I know,” Astoroth whimpered. “I've got the firepower of a soggy match and the bite of a gummy grandmother, but—give me another chance and I'll prove I'm not finished yet. . . . Please? Pleassssse? Pretty please?” He crawled across the floor and prostrated himself.
“OH, VERY WELL . . .” The Boss sighed. “ALTHOUGH, I WARN YOU, YOU'RE GOING TO FIND YOUR NEXT INCARNATION RATHER LESS LUXURIOUS THAN WHAT YOU'VE BECOME ACCUSTOMED TO OF LATE—”
“M-M-Minister?” Astoroth quavered. “D'you mean I'm to be reincarnated as a servant? Or as a woman, again? Or”—an awful possibility occurred to him—“or as a child? Oh please, no, not that—anything but that.”
The Boss stood up, wrapping a fur-lined cloak around himself, apparently unconcerned that the ambient temperature was hot enough to roast meat. He bent over Astoroth, purring in his ear, “DON'T WORRY, SCUM. I WON'T SEND YOU BACK AS A CHILD. YOU WON'T BE A SERVANT, EITHER. NO”—he gave a little mirthless snicker—“NO, NO. YOU'RE GOING BACK TO POOLS OF COOL WATER, A LIMITLESS FOOD SUPPLY, AND ENOUGH WILLING MEMBERS OF THE OPPOSITE SEX TO KEEP A RED-BLOODED CREATURE LIKE YOU HAPPY FOR A LIFETIME. . . .”
“Th-thank you, Minister,” Astoroth stammered, unable to believe his luck. Shaded swimming pools, endless banquets, and bags of nubile attendants? Suddenly the future looked so bright he was almost dazzled. He struggled to his feet, eagerly anticipating this promised incarnation—unfortunately forgetting that the prime requisite for becoming First Minister of Hades was the ability to lie through one's teeth.
4,748 Days Old
Latch had removed Strega-Nonna from her freezer the night before Titus's birthday, and consequently the old lady sat defrosting by the warmth of the range, hopeful of being sufficiently thawed in time to wish her great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson many happy returns. Pandora stepped carefully around her, laying a birthday breakfast tray for Titus, the centerpiece of which was a large raspberry muffin steaming tantalizingly in the middle of a blue china plate. The muffin had remained deliciously warm ever since Pandora had borrowed it from the library a fortnight before, its name of Multiplimuffin giving some clue to its magical properties. Across the table, Signora Strega-Borgia nibbled at a piece of dry toast and willed her stomach to desist from its attempts to repel all boarders.
Mrs. McLachlan swept into the kitchen bearing an armful of dirty linen, mildewed black velvet corsets, gray bloomers, and dark stockings so full of holes they were unlikely to survive the laundering process. Damp followed solemnly behind, holding one decomposing sock at arm's length. The little girl halted in the middle of the floor, a wide smile appearing on her face as she caught sight of Multitudina, who was cleaning her whiskers at the open door to the wine cellar. The nanny dropped her bundle of grubby clothes on the floor next to the washing machine and began to sort through what was in need of immediate laundering. Producing a small collection of coins and tissues from various pockets and folds, Mrs. McLachlan stopped to unfold a crumpled piece of paper. After a cursory glance, she gave a disbelieving snort and threw it into the coal scuttle beside Pandora, who stood waiting for the kettle to boil.
“So what did it say?” Titus mumbled, spraying crumbs across his bed and watching in amazement as the Multiplimuffin spontaneously regenerated itself for the eleventh time, the gap where he'd taken a mouthful filling back in with warm and fragrant cake.
“It said something like, Marry me, Signora. Let's make beautiful bambinos together. I may have the face of a rodent, but I have the bank account of an emperor. I await your reply c/o Hotel Baglione, Bologna, Italy.”
“Eughhh.” Titus gagged. “Disgusting . . .”
“Not the Multiplimuffin, surely?” Pandora frowned. “I was assured that it would taste heavenly no matter how long we kept it for—”
“No. Heck no, it's perfect,” Titus hastily reassured her, taking another bite for emphasis and watching the muffin miraculously regenerate. “No. It's that note to Mrs. McLachlan from our dirty old beast of an uncle. How dare he proposition our nanny? Anyway, she's far too old for that sort of thing—” He paused, then pleaded, “Isn't she?”
“I don't have a clue how old she is.” The continuing mystery of Mrs. McLachlan's exact age remained a closed book, one that Pandora suspected would remain so for years to come. “But even if she wasn't old, I'm sure she would never marry someone like Uncle Lucifer, no matter how rich he might be.” Pandora stood up and took the breakfast tray from Titus. “Come on, you. Enough muffin for now. Time for your swimming lesson.”
“Do I have to?” Titus collapsed backward onto his pillows. “Can't I have a day off? I mean, it is my birthday after all—”
Rolling her eyes, Pandora ignored him. Every morning was the same: a list of excuses, protests, and pleas for leniency, followed by Titus's reluctant arrival on the jetty. Then she would turn a deaf ear to his endless complaints about the earliness of the hour, the freezingness of the loch, and the hideousness of his swimsuit—until, exasperated by this daily litany, she would push him off the end of the jetty. After that, Titus was fine. Quite a willing pupil, in fact, she reminded herself, taking several thoughtful mouthfuls of the Multiplimuffin before tucking it into a napkin and hiding it behind a stack of computer manuals. She listened to the diminishing sound of her brother's footsteps and waited till she heard his voice drifting up from the garden below. Titus was ululating in a bad imitation of Tarzan as he ran across the meadow toward the loch, causing clouds of gnats to boil up into the still air, disturbed by his passage through the long grasses. Scratching reflexively, Pandora grabbed her towel and headed downstairs.
Dusk had drained the color from the surrounding mountains as the Strega-Borgias pronounced themselves replete. For a day in Argyll at the beginning of May, the weather had been positively Mediterranean, and thus the family and guests had lazed on the lawn and lochside after breakfast, nibbling until lunch, hung around for afternoon tea, and now, digesting dinner, were all too full to move. Even Signora Strega-Borgia had joined in, apparently overcoming whatever it was that had ailed her and devouring course after course of Titus's birthday banquet—badly prepared by Marie Bain and surreptitiously adjusted by Mrs. McLachlan.
>
There had been a few near-misses, the nanny thought, helping herself to a nectarine and remembering the tripe that she'd turned into trifle, not to mention the bacteria-laden sushi she'd been forced to transform into Sacher torte. . . . In addition to the cook's efforts, there had been bowls of tiny wild strawberries and dewy figs imported from the village of Luciano's birth, along with fat grapes to replace those destroyed by Fiamma d'Infer's wickedness in the greenhouse. A vast chocolate meringue cake had been reduced from its billowy heights to a tiny leftover sliver on a glass plate, and Knot was unashamedly licking the syllabub bowl clean, covering himself in primrose- yellow cream in the process. Hecate Brinstone had revealed a talent for baking bread, and her braided challah, marzipan-filled stollen, and crusty ciabatta had emerged from the depths of the range—causing Marie Bain to mutter bitterly into her soiled handkerchief as she ostentatiously buttered herself a stale slice of store-bought white.
Tock had caught a wild salmon, and under Sab's instructions had employed Ffup's fiery exhalations to smoke it whole, serving it up on a water-lily platter. Even Black Douglas had provided a black bombe, firing this ball of frozen chocolate ice cream out of one of the cannons protruding from the flank of his beautiful boat. He aimed the edible missile at the meadow, where it floated down on a tiny parachute to be retrieved, regrettably decorated with a powdering of flailing gnats, by Knot, who had assumed the insects to be animated vanilla seeds.
“Coffee?” groaned Signor Strega-Borgia, loosening his belt to its final notch, and praying that the walk to the kitchen wouldn't cause his stomach to explode. “Coffee, and then your birthday present, Titus?”
“We'll leave you to it,” Black Douglas said, climbing slowly to his feet and yawning widely. “We have to pack up and get ready to sail tomorrow,” and taking this as their cue, the student witches began to gather their belongings, bidding each other sleepy good-nights as they trailed effortfully toward the house in Signor Strega-Borgia's wake.
In the silence of the wine cellar, Luciano retrieved one of his precious bottles of Barolo and one each of elderflower champagne and peach nectar. He placed these in a waiting picnic hamper along with some crystal glasses and Titus's birthday cake. Heading into the kitchen, he was rummaging in the cutlery drawer for a corkscrew when he became aware that he was being watched. Looking up, he noticed a strangely dressed woman peering at him through tottering piles of dirty dishes. Signor Strega-Borgia blinked. Had he missed one? Was this one of Baci's colleagues he'd somehow managed to overlook during the previous week?
The stranger smiled and removed her tricorned hat by way of greeting. “At last,” she said, in evident relief. “Perhaps you can help—”
Luciano stared. The stranger was dressed like a coachman straight out of a fairy tale, with white wig and knee breeches adding to the overall effect.
“Um . . . I don't think we're interviewing for staff at the moment,” he murmured, wondering where on earth this vision had appeared from.
“I don't want a job,” the stranger sighed. “I want to go back to being a rat again.” Seeing Luciano's expression instantly change from one of slight confusion to total bewilderment, she explained, “I'm Multitudina. You know? Your house-rat? Mother of multitudes, including Terminus? Pandora's trainer? The Illiterat? Oh, come on—”
“Lovely . . . ,” Luciano mumbled, backing out of the kitchen, convinced that he was conversing with a madwoman. “Sorry, must dash—”
Eavesdropping halfway along the corridor, Astoroth was almost as confused as Signor Strega-Borgia. Upon arrival back at StregaSchloss, newly reincarnated as an insect, he'd been dismayed to find that the Chronostone was nowhere to be seen. He could have sworn it had been under the grandfather clock in the great hall; this sighting was backed up by the fact that he'd seen the dragon's blood fluoresce just before taking a bullet in his rear end. But now, to his dismay, not only was there no clock, but the stone appeared to have vanished, too. To add to his difficulties, the Boss hadn't lied about the presence of thousands of willing members of the opposite sex. . . . Everywhere Astoroth went there appeared to be millions of leering males, baring their teeth and waggling their proboscises in a truly loathsome fashion. The promised pools of cool water turned out to be stagnant puddles—and thus far, the guaranteed food supply that had been part of the job description had failed to materialize, and Astoroth was ravenous. Caught in the draft caused by Luciano's hasty passage along the corridor, the reincarnated demon found himself being swept out the front door and straight into the company of all the Strega-Borgias, beasts, and staff, who had assembled on the lawn to witness Titus opening his birthday present.
“Most extraordinary . . . ,” Luciano muttered, laying his hamper down on the grass. “Do you know I just found a complete stranger in our kitchen claiming that she's our house-rat, Multitudina? Not only that, but she appears to be dressed like a coachman out of Cinderella. . . . Baci, is she one of yours?”
Signora Strega-Borgia was staring at Damp. So, too, were Pandora and Mrs. McLachlan. Looking up from the pages of her picture book, Damp realized that she was the focus of their attention, and her bottom lip popped out in protest. Wishing to avoid tears before bedtime, Mrs. McLachlan scooped her up and turned to Titus.
“Right, laddie,” she said. “Time for your blindfold.”
“What?” groaned Titus. “What's going on?”
The nanny produced a clean tea towel from the picnic hamper and bid Titus tie it round his eyes. Once blindfolded, Titus was carefully led by Signor and Signora Strega-Borgia across the meadow, down the bramble-clad path, and out onto the jetty, by which time he was growing understandably nervous.
“Please, not more swimming?” he begged. “Really. I've done my bit for today, haven't I, Pan?” He stood swaying at the end of the jetty until Mrs. McLachlan stepped forward to put him out of his misery.
“You can remove the blindfold now, pet,” she whispered.
Fumbling with the knotted tea towel, Titus wondered what his family was up to. Nearby he could hear the tide lapping at the pebbly beach and, from the sound underfoot, he knew he was standing on the jetty, but why was he here? He blinked in the light of the twilit sky, its lilac reflections scattered across Lochnagargoyle, the blindfold falling unnoticed at his feet.
“Oh yes . . . ,” he breathed, catching sight of what waited for him, bobbing gently in the water. “Oh yes—oh YES—OH YESSSSSS!”
Forthcoming Attractions
Astoroth leapt aside as two colossal bottles rolled toward her, halted, and then—for no obvious reason—reversed their direction and rumbled back in the direction they'd come. The deafening crashes as the contents of Luciano's picnic hamper rolled around were causing the demon to feel all too mortal. Squeezing through a gap in the wicker, she found herself once again in the open air—and, if she wasn't mistaken, within range of something edible. . . .
I can't believe I'm doing this, Astoroth said to herself, alighting on a vast chunk of pale raw meat. Inhaling deeply, all the better to savor its aroma, she plunged her proboscis straight into Damp's leg. Since gnat bites are rarely painful, Astoroth's young victim hardly registered the intrusion. Giving a quick squirt of histamine to make Damp's blood run freely, the demon-gnat settled down to the feast. So engrossed was the demon that she failed to register the presence of a spider bearing down on her. A spider with a distinctly murderous gleam in her eyes. A spider lurching in her direction with a less than full complement of limbs, which was more than made up for by her overabundance of spleen.
Tarantella paused, listening to the repulsive slurping noises coming from her enemy. She laid down a minuscule homemade crutch, with a finality that boded ill for Astoroth. It had been the stench of sulfur that had alerted the spider to the gnat's true identity. Astoroth looked like a gnat, flew like a gnat, and certainly had the appetite of a gnat, but the brimstone reek of Hades marked her out as a demon, albeit a very tiny one. Tarantella sighed with pleasure, produced a tiny lipstick from somewhere
under her abdomen, and liberally applied this to her mouthparts, the absence of a mirror proving no hindrance to her skills at applying what was, in essence, war paint. Grooming her remaining legs with a bone comb, she assessed how best to dispatch the demon. Tear its legs off? No, no, no—way too simplistic. Tit-for-tat was such a mug's game. No, what was needed was a creative way to best exact her revenge on the monster that had amputated her eighth leg. . . .
Waving from the shore, Mrs. McLachlan was unaware that the Strega-Borgias were in such close proximity to the newly reincarnated demon Astoroth. Had she known, she wouldn't have hesitated to fling herself fully clothed into the loch and swim out to where the family floated in blissful ignorance of the demon in their midst. They rocked gently as Titus plied the oars on the little rowboat that was the best birthday present he'd ever had in his thirteen years on the planet.
“Look,” Pandora said, “your boat's so new that there's still sap oozing out of its planks. . . .”
Under one of these planks that formed a seat in the bow, Tarantella reached out a hairy limb and plucked Astoroth off Damp's leg. Before the demon could open her gnat's mouth in protest, she found herself overwhelmed by something sticky and suffocatingly redolent of pines. Whatever the something was, it crushed her antennae, flooded her staring eyes, seeped past her mandibles, and trickled into her gizzard—thus coating her, inside and out, in viscous glop. Tarantella regarded her handiwork with satisfaction before flicking the resinous droplet into Lochnagargoyle to jump-start its chemical transformation from pine sap to amber, the ultimate preservative. Amber—the substance in which insects dating back to the Stone Age have been found conserved, their tiny bodies imprisoned for eternity.