I’d been right! We had the key to the gate!
Still gripping the chain, I picked up my staff and cautiously led the way out of the study to the steps down to the cellar. I’d expected Meg to be awake, but I could hear the sound of her breathing in the kitchen, the air whistling out of her mouth as she exhaled. She was sound asleep, and so far our luck had more than held.
One option would have been to go straight into the kitchen and bind Meg while she was still sleeping, but I needed the chain to face the threat from the feral lamia in the cellar. We moved slowly down the steps, Alice now in the lead, until we reached the gate. This was a dangerous moment, and I’d already explained how a clang from the gate could resonate right through the house. But Alice inserted the key into the lock very carefully and twisted it without a sound. She managed to do the same when moving the gate, which we left open in case we needed to get out of the cellar fast.
It was very dark below, and I tapped Alice lightly on the shoulder, the signal to halt. I pushed the chain back into my pocket, leaned my staff carefully against the wall, and using my tinderbox, lit a candle stub and handed it to Alice. Once again I followed one step behind her, chain and staff at the ready. The candle was a calculated risk because, although the steps spiraled down, a glimmer of light might reach the cellar to alert the feral lamia. But we really needed some light to attend to the Spook properly and get him out of his cell. As it happened, it proved to be the right decision.
Suddenly Alice gasped, came to a sudden halt and pointed downward. A cold draft was coming up the steps from the cellar, making the candle flame dance and flicker, and by its light I glimpsed a dark shape moving rapidly up the steps toward us. For a moment, my heart racing, I thought it was the feral lamia: I stepped down alongside Alice, raised my left hand, and prepared to cast the silver chain.
But as the draft from below ceased, the light steadied and I saw that the rapid movement of the dark shape was an illusion caused by the flicker of the flame. Something was moving up the steps, but it was crawling; dragging itself so incredibly slowly that it would take a long time to reach the gate.
It was Bessy Hill, the other live witch—the one who’d been in the pit next to the feral lamia. Her gray hair was long and greasy and heaving with small black insects, while her tattered gown was stained with mildew and patches of slime. She was slowly dragging her body up the stairs, but although she’d managed to get free of her grave, years of surviving on a diet of slugs, worms, and other creepy crawlies meant that she hadn’t much power at her disposal. Of course, it might have been a very different story if we’d blundered into her in the dark.
We came to a halt. If she managed to get a grip on one of our ankles, it would be hard to pry her off. She wanted blood desperately and would fasten her teeth into any warm flesh that came near. A mouthful of blood would immediately make her much stronger and more dangerous. It was scary, but we had to get past her.
I moved downward nervously, gesturing to Alice that she should follow behind me. The steps were broad, and we were able to give the witch a wide berth. I wondered how she’d managed to escape from her pit. One possibility was that the feral lamia had bent the bars for her. Or maybe Meg had released her. As we passed, I glanced down at her quickly. Her head was facing us, but her eyes were tightly closed. Her mouth was open, though, and her long purple tongue was protruding down onto the step, as if licking something from the damp stone. She sniffed, snuffled, twisted her head up, and tried to lift her hand. When she opened her eyes, they were like points of fire burning in the dark.
We moved down quickly, leaving her behind. When we reached the landing with the three doors, I handed my staff to Alice. She accepted it with a grimace. She didn’t like to touch rowan wood. But I was already pulling my own key from my pocket, and it was the work of a moment to unlock the door to the Spook’s cell.
Until then I’d been worried that he might not be there. I thought that Meg might have moved him somewhere else, even putting him in a pit in the cellar. But there he was, sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. As the candle flickered light into the cell, he looked toward us, but his expression was one of bewilderment. After glancing down the steps and listening carefully to check that the lamia wasn’t coming up, I went into the cell with Alice, and we helped the Spook to his feet. He made no resistance as we tugged him to the door. He didn’t seem to recognize either of us, and I guessed that Meg had only recently given him a strong dose of the potion.
My chain was back in my pocket now—not the best place for it if the lamia attacked, but I had no choice. Progress up the steps was slow as the Spook shuffled upward, Alice and I supporting him by each elbow. I kept glancing back, but there were no threatening sounds from below. When we came to the witch on the stairs, she was asleep, eyes tightly closed, snoring loudly through her open mouth. Climbing the steps had exhausted her for now.
Soon we reached the gate. Once through it, Alice locked it carefully and quietly again, and I took the key from her and slipped it into my pocket. We continued up until we arrived at the ground floor. The sound of Meg’s breathing from the kitchen reassured me that she, too, was still asleep, so I now had an important decision to make. Either I could help Alice to get the Spook clear of the house, or I could enter the kitchen and bind Meg with the silver chain.
If I succeeded in binding her, it would be over and the house would be back in our hands. But trying it was filled with risk. Meg might wake up suddenly—and nine times out of ten wasn’t quite ten out of ten! I might miss, and Meg was incredibly strong. The Spook was in no condition to help, and the three of us would be at Meg’s mercy. So I pointed down the passageway to the front door.
Moments later I had the door open and helped Alice to get the Spook outside. Next I took the candle from her, shielding it close to my body to stop it from going out.
“I’ve got something to do back in the house,” I told her. “I won’t be long, but get Mr. Gregory away from here. Andrew should be waiting farther down the clough—”
“Don’t be daft, Tom!” Alice exclaimed, her face filled with concern. “What could be so important as to make you want to go back in there?”
“Trust me, Alice. It’s got to be done. I’ll see you back at Andrew’s—”
“There’s something you ain’t told me,” Alice complained. “What is it? Don’t you trust me?”
“Go on, Alice, please. Just do as I say. I’ll explain it all to you later.”
Reluctantly Alice moved off down the hill, guiding the Spook by the elbow. She didn’t look back, and I could tell that she was really angry with me.
CHAPTER XVI
Up to the Attic
ONCE inside, I closed the door behind me and started to climb the stairs. In my right hand I held the candle; in my left was my rowan staff. The silver chain was still in the left pocket of my sheepskin jacket. I moved up faster than we’d come down, but I was still careful. I didn’t want to wake Meg. I had another worry, too. My key would be too big for the lock of the Spook’s desk. I was going to have to force it open with the crowbar, and that was likely to make more than just a bit of noise.
As I climbed upward, I began to feel more and more uneasy. Meg was still sleeping, but she might wake up at any time. If she followed me up the stairs, I could always reposition the plank and make my escape through the back bedroom window. But would I hear her coming in time? Alice was right. On the face of it, this was a daft thing to do. But I kept thinking of Dad and forced my legs to keep climbing the stairs.
It wasn’t long before I was standing close to the attic door. I was just about to open it and go in when I heard a faint sound. It sounded like a sort of scratching. . . .
I listened nervously, with my left ear close to the door, and heard the scratching sound again. What could be making a noise like that? I’d no choice but to ignore it and try to get what Morgan wanted. I began to turn the handle. Only then, as I slowly stepped into the room, did I realize that I should
have escaped with Alice and the Spook while I still had the chance. I should have told my master everything that had happened with Morgan and followed his advice. The Spook would have known how best to help Dad.
All my instincts now told me to run. It was as if a voice were screaming “Danger! Danger! Danger!” over and over again inside my head. When I stepped inside, I almost closed the door behind me. I felt a strong urge to do it, but somehow I managed to resist. It was gloomy, so I lifted the candle above my head in order to see better; then there was a sudden blast of cold air and it guttered out.
Above, I could see the square pale outline of the skylight. It was wide open, and there was a cold breeze wafting downward into my face. Six small birds were perched on the edge of the skylight. They were silent, as if waiting patiently for something. And below them was the horror of that room.
The floorboards were scattered with feathers, splattered with blood and littered with fragments of dead birds. It was as if a fox had got into a chicken coop. There were wings, legs, heads, and hundreds and hundreds of feathers. Feathers falling through the air, swirling around my head, stirred by the chill breeze that was blowing through the skylight.
When I saw something much larger, I wasn’t surprised. But the sight of it chilled me to the bone. Crouching in the corner, close to the writing desk, was the feral lamia, eyes closed, the top lids thick and heavy. Her body seemed smaller somehow, but her face looked far larger than the last time I’d glimpsed it. It was no longer gaunt but pale and bloated, the cheeks almost two pouches. As I watched, the mouth opened slightly and a trickle of blood ran down her chin and began to drip onto the floorboards. She licked her lips, opened her eyes, and looked up at me as if she had all the time in the world.
She’d been feeding. Feeding on the birds. She’d opened the skylight and then summoned the birds to her clawed, clutching hands, compelling them to fly to where she was waiting. Then, she’d begun to drink their blood, one by one, keeping the ones still alive close by with a spell of compulsion. They had wings but had lost the will to fly away.
I’d no wings, though I did have legs. But my legs wouldn’t obey me and I stood, rooted to the spot with fear. She came toward me very slowly. Maybe it was because she was heavy, being so bloated with blood. Maybe she felt there was no hurry.
Had she scurried across the floor toward me, it would have been over. I’d never have left that attic. But she moved slowly. Very slowly. And the horror of watching her approach was enough to break the spell. Suddenly I was free. I could move. Move faster than I’d ever moved before.
I had no thought of using either my chain or staff. My legs acted quicker than I could think. As the lamia crawled across the floorboards, I turned and ran. And as I ran, there was a flutter of wings from behind: my escape had released the waiting birds from the spell. Terrified, my heart hammering, I bounded down the stairs, making enough noise to wake the dead. But I didn’t care. I just had to get outside and away from the lamia. Nothing else mattered. All my courage had gone.
But someone was waiting for me in the shadows at the foot of the stairs.
Meg.
Why hadn’t I turned off the stairway into the back bedroom? I should have concentrated. Thought carefully. Instead I’d panicked and missed my chance to escape. The feral lamia was too bloated with blood to move quickly. I’d have been able to open the window, position the plank, and crawl across it to safety. And now my heavy feet thumping down the stairs had awakened Meg.
She was there, between me and the front door. While somewhere behind me, probably already descending the stairs, was the feral lamia. Meg looked up at me, her pretty face widening into a smile. There was enough light to see that it wasn’t a friendly smile. Suddenly she leaned toward me and sniffed loudly three times.
“I once said I wouldn’t give you to my sister,” she said. “But that’s all changed now. I know what you’ve done. There’s a price to pay for that. A blood price!”
I didn’t answer, because I was already retreating slowly up the stairs. I was still gripping the stub of candle, so I thrust it into my breeches pocket. That done, I transferred my staff to my right hand and pulled out the silver chain from the left pocket of my sheepskin jacket.
Meg must have seen the chain or sensed it, because suddenly she ran up the stairs directly at me, her hands held before her as if she wanted to rip out my eyes. I panicked, took quick aim, and hurled the chain directly at her. It was a wild shot, and it missed her head completely. But fortunately for me, it fell against her left shoulder and side. At its touch, she screamed out in agony and fell back against the wall.
Seeing my chance, I ran past her and reached the foot of the stairs before turning to face her. At least now I didn’t have the threat of her sister at my back. The chain was still on the steps above. All I had now was my staff of rowan wood. It was the most powerful wood of all to use against a witch. But Meg wasn’t from the County; she was a lamia witch from a foreign land. Would it be effective against her?
Meg regained her balance and turned to face me. “The touch of silver is agony to me, boy,” she said, her face twisted with fury. “How would you like to feel pain like that?”
She took a step down, and as she did so, quite deliberately trailed the back of her left hand along the wall at her side. As I watched, she scraped her nails hard against the plaster, gouging into it deeply. The plaster was old and very hard. She was showing me what her nails could do to my flesh. As Meg took another step, I readied the staff, pointing it upward, ready to jab at her head and shoulders.
But I was thinking now. Concentrating. And when she attacked, rushing down the steps, I brought the staff quickly down, thrusting it at her feet. Her eyes widened as she saw what I was trying to do, but her momentum was too great: her legs became tangled in the staff and she fell headlong down the stairs. The staff was torn from my hands, but now I had a chance to retrieve the chain, and I leaped over her and ran back up the steps.
I picked up the chain, twisted it around my left wrist, and prepared to throw it again. This time I was determined not to miss.
She smiled at me, her face full of mockery. “You’ve missed once already. It’s not as easy as throwing at that post in Gregory’s garden, is it? Are your hands sweating, boy? Are they starting to shake? You’ll only get one more chance. And then you’ll be mine. . . .”
I knew that she was just trying to undermine my confidence and make it more likely that I’d miss. So I took a deep breath and remembered my training. Nine times out of ten, I could hit the post. And I’d never missed twice in a row. Only fear could stop me now. Only doubt. So I took a deep breath and concentrated. As Meg came to her feet, I took careful aim.
I cracked the chain in the air like a whip before hurling it straight at the witch. It fell in a perfect widdershins spiral to enclose her head and body. She gave a shriek, but it was cut off suddenly as the silver chain tightened against her mouth and she fell heavily to the floor.
Cautiously I walked down the steps and looked at her closely. To my relief, she was bound fast. I looked into her eyes and saw the pain there. But although the silver chain was hurting her, there was defiance in her eyes, too. Suddenly her expression changed, and I realized that she was looking beyond me, back up the stairs. At the same time I heard a scuttling and spun around to see Marcia, the feral lamia, moving down the steps toward me.
Once again the fact that she had already drunk her fill of blood saved me. She was still bloated and sluggish. Otherwise she’d have attacked before I’d even had a chance to blink. So I snatched up my rowan staff and moved up the stairs to meet her. Hatred burned from her heavy-lidded eyes, and the four thin limbs beneath her body tensed, ready to spring forward. At first I didn’t have time to be afraid and jabbed toward her bloated face with my staff. She couldn’t stand the touch of rowan wood and gasped with pain as my third jab struck her just below the left eye. She hissed angrily and began to retreat backward, her long, greasy black hair brushing the st
airs on either side of her to leave a slimy, damp trail.
I don’t know how long I struggled with her. Time seemed to stand still. Sweat was running from my brow into my eyes and I was breathing hard, my heart hammering from both exertion and fear. I knew that at any moment she might slip beneath my guard or that I might stumble—in which case she’d have been on me in an instant, her sharp teeth sinking into my legs. But at last I backed her up to the attic door, then jabbed again frantically to drive her inside. That done, I slammed the door hard and locked it, using my key. I knew the door wouldn’t stop her for long, and as I descended the stairs, I heard her claws already beginning to rip at the wooden door. It was time to escape. I’d follow the others to Andrew’s shop. When the Spook had recovered, we’d be able to return and sort things out.
But when I opened the front door, a blizzard was raging outside, snow blasting straight into my face. I might find my way to the edge of the clough, but to go beyond that would be madness. Even if I got down off the moor safely, I could freeze to death trying to find Adlington. Quickly I closed the door. There was just one other option left.
Meg was no bigger than I was and wasn’t very heavy. So I decided to take her down into the cellar and put her in the pit. That done, I could lock myself behind the gate with her and be relatively safe from the feral lamia. Or at least for a while. Even the gate wouldn’t stop Marcia forever.
However, there was the other witch, Bessy Hill, to worry about. So I left Meg at the top of the cellar steps and had a quick search for the Spook’s bag. I found it at last in the kitchen and quickly helped myself to pocketfuls of salt and iron. That done, I carried Meg down to the cellar, holding her across my right shoulder by her legs. In my left hand I carried both my staff and a candle. It took a long time to get her down there, and I was careful to lock the gate behind me. Once again I kept well away from Bessy Hill, who was still snoring on the stairs.
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