“Keeva’s here,” Dulcie called from the kitchen. “She’s calling a war council.”
Astral quickly got up and returned to the kitchen where Keeva was wolfing down a slab of Hawaiian cake. Fergal had come in and he was slumped in his favourite seat in the corner while Ping perched shyly at the table eating cake and cookies with a contented smile. Feeding Ping was simple. She adored everything Astral baked. Fergal seemed to survive on booze alone. He was never quite sober, yet never fully drunk. He assured her it was a leprechaun thing and part of his “superpowers,” but Astral wondered if he was pulling her leg.
“Mother’s on the way over once she enchants the manor,” Erigone said as she put her phone down. “She doesn’t want any of that rabble near the place. They’ll scare the deer.”
“Delia called. She’s collecting Martha and Tallulah. They’ll be here in five minutes,” Keeva said. She finished her piece of cake. “And that’s our lot. Eleven of us. This will be the first official gathering of The Guardians.” She seemed excited, but what was there to be excited about? Everything was in disarray.
“We’re having a war council?” Astral asked, just to be sure.
Dulcie glanced at Keeva, then at Astral. “War has been declared. Eve Wormrider saw to that by blighting our village with her icky kinsfolk. We need to prepare for it.”
“Wormrider and her posse are burning our businesses,” Keeva said. “People are scared to come out of their homes. Tomorrow night, Hellbent comes to claim The Plague Tree Coven anyway, so this is her last chance to try and harm us, and she will.”
Astral’s throat tightened. “But why? What’s in it for her?”
Keeva shrugged. “It’s the same as burning the village square. What’s to be gained by that?” She paused, then looked at Dulcie. “I heard on the Dogwitch grapevine that it was Eve who hexed Merryman.”
“It had to be her.” Dulcie flushed bright red in anger. “I’m not sure how she did it, because it’s not like she’s that clever or powerful.”
“Anyone in her extended family could have helped,” Astral said. “They’re all into the black arts, after all.” How terrible, to kill another witch’s familiar. She still couldn’t wrap her head around that.
“That day when Merryman dive-bombed her in the square…” They all looked at Damián. “I saw her collect a few feathers he’d dropped,” he said.
“That would do it,” Dulcie said angrily. “Wormrider is toast.”
“We’ve one day to prepare our defences,” Keeva said. “So, let’s plan well. All we need is to hold them until Hellbent arrives at the zenith of the thirteenth moon and carts them off for a new employee orientation.”
Astral wondered if Abby would be with the recruiters.
“I suggest we dig in here,” Keeva continued. “This farmhouse is the safest place I can think of. What do you say, Astral? It’s your family home, and your decision.”
She nodded and stared down at her hands, then looked up at them. Even Erigone seemed to be holding her breath, waiting. “I’m not sure my ancestors foresaw a witch war, but it’s a strong house and hopefully the Projector magic will protect us.”
A collective sigh of relief emanated from the other four.
What else was there to do? Astral stood and wiped her sweating palms on her skirt. “Okay, then.” She refilled the kettle. “War it is.” The import of the words was going to take a while to sink in. “I’d better make a fresh pot of tea.”
Chapter 16
The thirteenth moon rose over the chalk hills to the south. It was a big, red, full-bellied moon, eager for whatever the night might bring. The silhouette of a solitary falcon spiralled lazily before it, buoyed on an invisible breeze, an eager and acting witness for whatever unfolded.
“Has Riff-Raff allocated the chickens their sentry posts?” Keeva asked from her own post by the kitchen window.
“Yes, and I’ve positioned the ducks on the western wall by the old pigsties, in case they come from that direction,” Astral answered. She was at the kitchen table desperately willing the old hazelwood wand to mend. It lay before her in two floury pieces. Unwrapping the silk binding revealed tentative root filaments, slender white fingers growing out from the broken ends of the wand reaching towards each other in a bid to graft together. The healing process had begun. The roots needed to mesh, grow strong, and finally bind the wand whole, but it would be a torturously long process.
Astral sighed. “Why did I let Magdalene do this? What was I thinking?” She was effectively without a weapon.
Dulcie placed a hand on her shoulder. “You were a very different witch then, Astral. Look at how much you’ve grown since. None of us could have stopped Magdalene that night.”
“And now it’s all awkward ’cause you’re both on the same side,” Damián added.
“Not helping,” Dulcie said.
“Yeah, go to your post.” Astral pointed at Keeva. His witchcraft was not of a sufficient standard for him to fight alone, so Keeva had volunteered to keep an eye on him. The other Guardians were scattered throughout the house, front and back, over all floors. Astral, the other weak link, acted as backup. She’d lend secondary support wherever it was needed.
“Poor wand. All that flour.” Damián continued to mull over the sad state of affairs rather than do as he was told. “Looks like you’re going to bake it, not mend it.”
“Off with you.” Dulcie pushed him towards Keeva.
“Come on,” Keeva called him. “It’ll be fun. I’ll make the power balls and you can throw ’em.”
“I’m going now,” Dulcie murmured. Her post was Grandma Lettice’s bedroom at the front of the house. From there, she’d have a good view of the farm lane. Astral would stay with Delia Dell in the downstairs parlour until needed elsewhere, while Magdalene and Erigone had a back bedroom each.
Above them, on the top floor, Martha and Tallulah took the back attic rooms and Ping and Fergal had the front ones. They would also protect the roof, which left Keeva and Damián in the kitchen. All the main rooms were covered. There weren’t many Guardians, so the plan was to dig in at the house and leave the yard to Riff-Raff. Strategically, it was the best they could do.
“The moon’s nearly at its zenith,” Keeva observed. “Won’t be long now.”
Astral gave the wand a lingering look before carefully dropping the black silk over it. “I’ll wrap you up properly and put you back in the dresser later,” she told it. “I need to hurry now. Bad witches are coming.”
Astral wasn’t sure, but maybe keeping it out in the open might even help the healing. It was curious how the wand preferred to lurk in the top drawer with the spatulas and flour dust instead of being out in the daylight. It was a magical wand of Light. Then again, who was she to tell it how to lick its wounds? She’d be disgusted with her, too, over what had happened.
Before taking up her position, Astral did a quick recon of the house’s interior. The hallway and landings were muted and angry. Solid resolution hummed from every brick and splinter of wood. The wallpaper was hostile, displaying broomsticks with attached warheads. Even the carpet bristled under her feet. Every inch of the Projector house had been imbued with ancient protection spells and now that it was under threat, they were automatically activated. Astral was glad she was inside her magical fortress and not creeping through muck and mire trying to assail it.
“Incoming on the front lane,” Dulcie hollered. Astral could feel an echoing buzz in her brain, meaning Dulcie was also using mind-blend to warn the others. She joined Delia by the large parlour windows.
“Can you see them?”
“They’re sneaking along the hedgerows. We’ve got Merryman out there spying along with Chloe,” Delia said, referring to her wood pigeon familiar.
Lupin was currently glued to Keeva’s side, as were Jasper and Casper to Martha and Tallulah. Unlike Lupin, Jasper and Casper were yapping and whining to get outside and nip some ankles. Borage was nowhere to be seen. He’d taken himself off to some
safe spot. Hecate only knew where Syracuse and Sleekit were. Astral didn’t like to think of them having free access to her home, but there was little she could do about it at the moment.
“The chickens mustn’t have seen them yet.” Astral frowned. Why hadn’t they attacked? They were the first line of defence.
“Merryman has a plan,” Delia told her. No sooner had she spoken than a volley of Irish blues in their terracotta flowerpots sailed through the air with a wild whoosh and crashed pell-mell several yards away into the nearest hedge. Squeals of outrage and pain followed and a few witches broke cover to retreat.
“Geranium bombs!” Astral was in awe. “Well done, Merryman.”
A second volley of jolly jewel salmons flew up and out, plummeting onto the more resilient witches still skulking in the undergrowth. They’d barely landed, evoking fresh cries of pain, before a third wave of feu d’automnes flushed the last witches into the open. Potting compost, petals, and leaf debris dripped from their robes. Some limped, and many bore head injuries. The fight had begun in earnest and The Guardians had drawn first blood.
No sooner were the witches flushed from the hedges than Riff-Raff gave a mighty crow and the chickens charged from the barn. They descended in an angry, pummelling flock, leaping to entangle claws in hair and flap their agitated wings in panicked faces. Others pecked at the witch’s legs and harried their familiars, separating them from their mistresses.
“Ouch.” Both Delia and Astral winced watching it all unfold.
“Poor familiars,” Astral said. She watched an alligator flee the yard with a cocky little leghorn hard on his heels nipping at his tail. A Rhode Island Red upended a porcupine, and a Plymouth Rock held an unhappy goat hostage up a tree. The unnerved familiars were so upset that their owners became more preoccupied with rescuing them than attacking the house.
Around the corner, a Stormtrooper squad of Indian runner ducks appeared and began their own attack by pecking at thighs and the backs of knees. One or two witches managed to let loose a few zingers—long firework threads of spiked energy towards the house—but they fizzled out before hitting the target. The poultry continued to successfully disrupt spell-casting with claw and beak. The yard was a turmoil of feathered fury. Whenever there was a clear target, Delia sent a zinger of her own to flatten a witch.
“I could get used to this.” She smiled grimly, blasting a member of the Walsall Weevils into the next field. She quickly dispatched two more. Astral sent out a spurt of disruptive energy from her palms. It dropped a hairy-legged vampire bat in mid-flight, but it was more luck than good aim.
“Back. Now. Everybody get back!”
Astral was unsure who gave the order, but the witches and their familiars began a bedraggled retreat just as Magdalene’s telepathic warning snapped through the house. “There’s a horde sneaking up from behind. That attack was a distraction.”
“Stay here and pick off the stragglers.” Astral gave Delia a sturdy shoulder slap and ran to support Magdalene and Erigone. She dashed upstairs to her own room, where Erigone was already gleefully zapping witches from the bedroom window. Astral hesitated, noticing her bed was strewn with the contents of her dressing table. Lipsticks, perfumes, and personal papers sprawled across the coverlet. Her diary lay open.
“Have you been going through my stuff?” she asked, incredulous.
“Beat it,” Erigone drawled without looking over. “You’re bad luck.” She zapped another volley out the window. There was no time for a showdown. A crash of glass from the room next door sent Astral running to Magdalene’s side.
“You could have opened it.” Astral surveyed the damage. Like her daughter, Magdalene was at a window picking off the many black-robed figures slithering around the fields at the rear of the house. Above them, Martha and Tallulah threw lightning streaks that zigzagged through the night sky to electrify those below. Several witches lay twitching on the singed grass. Erigone let loose a series of power balls that ricocheted across the fields, knocking over everything in their path. Magdalene cackled and zapped out a few power balls of her own.
“They were your followers not that long ago. Don’t you feel any remorse?” Astral said, watching a young witch, once a big Magdalene groupie, flip head over heels and land at a bone crunching angle.
“Are they my followers now?” Magdalene let loose another blazing power ball from the palm of her hand. It hit a Catgut novice square in the chest and threw her several feet into a hawthorn bush. Magdalene surveyed her work with satisfaction. “You’re lucky I’ve decided to be on your side.”
Wordless, Astral attempted an attack. She conjured a weak sizzler and tossed it out the window, where it hopped, skipped, and jumped a bit, before falling into an empty horse trough and wheezing out its last.
Magdalene gave her a withering look. “I’m fine here. Why don’t you go to the kitchen and bake something? We’ll need a tea break soon.” She turned her back and renewed her salvo, chuckling as her targets dropped like bowling pins.
Astral frowned and opened her mouth to object, but a persistent thought kept pushing at her brain, as it had done all morning. Something Damián had said about her wand looking like a recipe. Like she was going to bake with it? What had he said? And why did it always prefer to be in the top drawer covered in flour…oh! Astral had an epiphany, a light bulb moment, and it sent her scurrying from the room.
Baking powder, yeast, what else? She ran around the kitchen like a madwoman banging open drawers and cupboards, stoking up the woodstove, grabbing her favourite bowl and whisk.
“What are you doing?” Keeva called from the window. She was generating power balls, one in each hand, offering one to Damián to gleefully toss out the window, and aiming a shot of her own with the second. “There. Several of them behind the pigsty.” She offered him a particularly nasty looking orb of kinetic power.
He took it from her, assessed his target, and let loose.
His aim was true, and he clapped with delight. “Bernice Grubber bites the dust,” he crowed. “I never liked her.”
Keeva laughed and generated several electric-blue zingers. “Try these. They’re a little lighter, so aim lower. Astral, what are you doing? Is this really the time?”
Astral blew a frizz off her forehead and stopped whisking. She tested the consistency of the mixture. Just right. “It’s the wand,” she called back. “It’s been trying to tell me all along. It’s a Fireside wand, and it wants to be baked better.” She placed the two wand segments into the bottom of a large loaf tin and poured her batter mix on top.
“What?” Keeva stared at her, horrified.
“Baking it will heal it.”
“Keeva, they’re coming,” Damián squeaked, but Keeva didn’t respond, still staring at Astral.
“All this time it was hiding in the drawer surrounded by sugar and flour, it was telling me something, but I was too stupid—”
“Keeva,” Damián said, panicked. “There’re two of them right outside the door.”
“But you’ll destroy it,” Keeva said to Astral. “You can’t bake a wand, you’ll kill it.”
“Keeva,” Damián said, still panicking. A red mass of energy began to shimmer between his hands, then solidify enough to bounce like a ball from palm to palm. His face became a mask of horror.
“Keeva!” he squawked, tossing the shimmering ball from one palm to the other as if it were red hot. “I can’t—” Out of fear rather than any martial prowess or forethought, he flung it straight out the window. It thwacked into the witches jigging the backdoor and sent them skidding across the yard through the mud and throngs of angry chickens.
“Cherry bomb,” Keeva cheered, and gave Damián a celebratory slap on the back so hard, his knees buckled. “Good for you. Now make another one and wallop that witch, the one crouched behind my car. Mind the paintwork, though.”
With Keeva’s attention back on the fight, Astral flung the loaf tin into the woodstove oven and set the timer on her watch. She hoped she wa
s doing the right thing. In her gut it seemed right, but Keeva had unnerved her enough to doubt herself. What would happen to the Projector magic if she killed the wand?
“Needing a little help here.” Dulcie’s voice echoed in her head loud and clear. Astral sprinted for the front bedroom.
“They’re trying to outflank us,” Dulcie told her as soon as she arrived.
From the attic windows, Fergal was using a hand catapult to shoot gold coins. Wherever they hit, the coins stung like crazy before exploding in a blinding rainbow that dissipated his precious fairy gold. They could hear him overhead, laughing and hurling insults along with his coins. “Take that, ye dirty scut,” and, “I’ll skelp the arse off ye.”
Beside him, Ping followed suit. With unerring accuracy, her catapult spat out half-rotten teeth. Her targets squealed and ducked and danced under the stinging onslaught before finally running for cover.
Dulcie tossed a cluster spell out of the window that rained lumps of coal on those below. This she followed with a shower of black ink that ran down faces and blinded the eyes. “I couldn’t do any big spells until Riff-Raff cleared the poultry out of the way. Apparently, they didn’t want to go back in the barn.” She leaned out the window, made a magical gesture, and a thick blanket of custard smothered her hapless victims. They staggered blindly around the front yard. “We don’t want chickens injured by friendly fire. Oh, bang on, Delia,” she shouted down to the young witch whose daisy-cutter spell swept several witches off at the ankles. “That was a belter!”
“What can I do?” Astral took her place by the second window. “I can’t do cluster spells.” She looked around and grabbed a vase from the dresser and tossed it out the window. It flattened Mary Meany.
“Keep throwing knick-knacks. It seems to be working.”
“I’m baking the wand to heal it,” Astral informed her. “I know it’s the right thing to do.” She chucked the matching vase.
“Okay, why?” Dulcie asked, her attention on the enemy. “We need flies,” she muttered, and conjured up a cloud of black buzzing insects that descended on the custard-covered witches, sending them screaming down the lane, flapping and flailing at the black cloud around their heads. “Don’t you feel this is a little too easy?” Dulcie asked, watching the disorderly retreat.
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