For one terrible moment I thought that her spirit had fled her body. It is possible for a witch to overextend herself, using so much of her power that her body can no longer function. Although Alice was hardly breathing and had exhausted herself to the point of death, she was somehow clinging to life. I let out a sigh of relief.
The immediate crisis was over. For now our enemies were going nowhere far. So I picked up Alice, threw her over my shoulder, and retreated from the shore.
I took refuge in an abandoned farmhouse. There were only three walls standing, but it provided shelter from the chill westerly wind. The roof would provide no protection from the rain; all that remained of it was the wooden supports, a rib cage above which a gibbous moon glinted through the patchwork of fast-moving clouds.
If our enemies still had the Fiend’s head, I would take it from them later. Perhaps it had sunk to the bottom of the sea. At least that would put it beyond the reach of witches. But no doubt in time they would get someone to dive and retrieve it for them. However, the immediate danger was over; I could deal with my enemies at my leisure, slaying them one by one. I shivered with pleasure. I had waited a long time for this, and I intended to savor each succulent moment of my revenge.
I had decided to attend to Alice and seek them out later, after dark. She opened her eyes and looked up at me, then tried to sit up. The effort was too much for her, and I rested my hand on her shoulder in reassurance. Her eyes closed.
“Sleep,” I commanded her softly. “You are exhausted.”
She resisted and tried in vain to open her eyes again. After a few moments the rhythm of her breathing told me that she had fallen into a deep sleep. It was true that using such powerful magic had exhausted her, but I had also given her something to ensure that she would sleep until dawn at least. I had used an infusion of two herbs. She had taken three sips, that was all, but it was enough for my purposes.
I looked at her hair and smiled. It was dark at the roots. Soon it would grow out as black as it was before. But would her mind heal as quickly? I doubted it. Few had suffered as much as Alice at the hands of the Fiend.
The survivors of the shipwreck had gathered in a wood about three miles to the south of us. I had been close to them already without being detected and had sniffed out their situation. Now I carried out one final reconnaissance, this time using powerful magic to cloak myself. I moved in. In all, about thirty remained; but, to my delight, I saw that eight of the witches were suffering from the effects of saltwater, two so badly contaminated that they were sure to die. I sniffed repeatedly to learn as much as possible about their situation. It was wonderful to sense the general feeling of gloom and desperation. Most of them were clearly terrified; after all, they had let down their lord, the Fiend. They feared his wrath.
Using their magic, they had already discovered the means by which their ship had been destroyed and were afraid of Alice and the power she had wielded. But they feared me too.
Only the mage and the kretch were still confident of their ability to defeat me. But, most important of all, I learned that the Fiend’s head was still in their possession. The mage, Bowker, was carrying it. This was my priority.
I had drugged Alice because I wanted to protect her; if she was with me, there was a danger that she might get hurt. But I also wanted to be the one to wreak revenge on my enemies. Besides, I prefer to work alone.
CHAPTER XXIII
OH, MR. WOLF!
Are you my enemy? Are you strong, with speed
and agility and the training of a warrior?
It matters naught to me. Run now! Run fast into the forest!
I’ll give you a few moments’ start—an hour, if you wish.
But you will never be fast enough.
I’ll catch and kill you before long.
BEFORE I leave the sleeping Alice, I think of poor Thorne again, and grief knots my stomach. But I counter that by going over the happy times we shared and remember the way she grew in strength and skill, becoming more than I had ever hoped for her. Finally, before I put my memories of Thorne aside, my mind returns to a question she once asked me:
“Have you ever taken the thumb bones of your enemies while they were still alive?”
I refused to give her an answer. Whether I have done so or not is my business and not the concern of others. But it suits me if my enemies think that I do. This is why I carve the image of my scissors on trees, to warn them off.
Now I am ready—ready to kill. Ready to kill them all. I have become the mother of death. She trots at my heels, hanging on to my skirt, giggling with glee, leaving wet footprints of red blood on the green grass. Can you hear her laughter? Listen for it in the cries of the carrion crows who will feast on the flesh of my victims.
I stand at the edge of the wood. As a result of the healing and the magic that Alice gave me, I am strong; perhaps stronger than ever before. I am so well cloaked that my enemies are totally unaware of my presence. The prospect of combat excites me, and I am more than ready to fight and kill. They expect an attack but know not the precise moment when it will strike or from which direction. Thus I retain some element of surprise.
My blades are ready in their scabbards; so are my scissors. Once I have slain my enemies, I will take their thumb bones. Thus I will increase my store of magic even further. I must retrieve the Fiend’s head and keep it safe from those who covet it. So I need all the magic I can get. I must also return to Alice that which she gave me. No doubt one day she will have need of it.
I attack. I am fast, so very fast. Never have I been faster!
One runs at me from the left. I draw and flick the blade, all in one fluid movement. It catches the witch in the throat, and she falls heavily—the first of my enemies to die.
Where is the kretch?
I sniff, and immediately know that it is far below me, to the left. There are many enemies between us. No matter. I will kill them first. My long blade is in my left hand now. I cut and kill a witch who runs straight at me. But now they have all sniffed me out. They are converging, anticipating my progress down through the trees. So I begin to slow down, changing direction slightly to draw them after me.
At last I come to a halt in a small clearing and await their attack. They encircle me and close in rapidly, moving toward me through the trees. They are eager to reach me. Tighter and tighter the circle becomes, and I hear feet drumming on the ground, getting louder and louder. Within seconds the first of them will burst out of the cover of the trees, and into the circular clearing where I stand.
I am ready.
This is the killing ground.
And far beyond the circle of blades, the kretch is still waiting, the mage at its side.
Oh, Mr. Wolf! Soon it will be your turn!
The bravest witches come in hard and fast. They die first. I whirl and cut and spin, slicing and stabbing until the air is filled with the shrieks, curses, and screams of my enemies, until the grass is slick with their blood.
Others press in behind them: Lisa Dugdale, Jenny Croston, and Maggie Lunt. These are the three from Pendle who have lashed blades to long sticks. They seek to jab and stab from a distance, with less risk to themselves. These are the ones who cut and slayed Wynde, the lamia, when she lay helpless with a broken wing in the jaws of the kretch; these are the cowards who tried to pierce the armor of the knight when he was down and at their mercy. So I find it satisfying to pay them back in kind.
So these I maim rather than kill outright. They limp away, hoping to reach safety. I will hunt them down later. It will be something to savor.
My enemies fall back and begin to flee. Now there is only the mage and the kretch to deal with. Bowker steps forward, the leather sack on his shoulder, and points the small rodent skull at my head. He chants, and something invisible but deadly surges at me; I hear a ringing in my ears.
I stagger and almost fall, and suddenly I am weak and defenseless. Bowker laughs and comes toward me, the weapon still pointing at my head, a blade
readied in his other hand.
“It was I who took the bones of the girl, Grimalkin! And now I will take yours!” he cries.
He is less than ten steps away when I rally, drawing upon the magic that Alice has given me. It is stronger than the weapon he has used against me; stronger than anything he has at his disposal. I show my teeth, draw a dagger from its sheath, and hurl it toward him. It buries itself in his leg, and he drops to one knee. Seeing the death in my eyes, he turns and flees, limping toward the trees, leaving a trail of blood on the grass. He still has the Fiend’s head but will not get far. Soon he will be mine.
“Mr. Wolf!” I cry. “Now it is your turn! I am here! I am Grimalkin! Now we fight to the death!”
The kretch bounds toward me, forelimbs outstretched, eager to rend the flesh from my bones. It rears up, towering over me, and slashes at me with its talons.
I whirl and spin, avoiding their sharp poisonous tips, and the hilt of my blade smashes hard into its mouth, making of it a bloody ruin. It reminds me of what I did to the Fiend, and I smile.
Oh, Mr. Wolf! What big teeth you had!
I laugh as it shakes its head and the shattered teeth fall from its mouth. Some of them are red with blood, and it is enraged as I spring away; now it is snarling and spinning like a mad dog trying to catch its elusive tail. But it is slow, so very slow, and I am lithe and nimble. We dance together; the dance of death that it promised me.
Oh, Mr. Wolf! What big eyes you had!
My words are true because my blades have taken them both, stabbing faster than a blink, straight in under the bone shields. Now the kretch is blind again. This time it will not be given the chance to recover. This time only death awaits it.
I stab and cut as if in a frenzy. But each blow is measured; each slicing of its flesh calculated and precise—until it is weak and the ground is soaked in its blood.
Oh, Mr. Wolf! What a big heart you had!
Now I hold the heart of the kretch in my hands. At first it still beats, but soon it is still and begins to cool. I cut it into tiny pieces and scatter the bloody fragments on the ground. Finally I dismember the body and scatter it to the wind.
The crows will feast well.
But its thumb bones I keep. Later they will join the others that I wear around my neck.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE HUNT
MY favorite weapon is the long blade:
I use it for fighting at close quarters.
Think you can beat me?
It is already buried in your heart!
The kretch is dead, and now I keep my promise:
The ones who slew Thorne must all die too.
So I begin the hunt.
I break the back of Lisa Dugdale.
I hang her from an oak by her toes;
I drain her blood;
I take her bones.
I drown Jenny Croston in a deep, cold pond.
I hold her head underwater while her limbs thrash;
I drain her blood;
I take her bones.
Maggie Lunt begs like a frightened child.
I kill her quickly; my knife splits her heart;
I drain her blood;
I take her bones.
Finally I catch and slay Bowker, the mage;
I take his bones;
I drain his blood.
Thus Thorne is avenged—
For who is left to say:
“We took her bones”?
None, because all are dead,
And I took theirs.
I am Grimalkin.
CHAPTER XXV
A SORRY SIGHT INDEED
I sense your threat!
How strong are you?
Are you worth my time?
Shall I look for you in my mirror!
I sit cross-legged, sheltering by a hawthorn hedge, and remove the Fiend’s head from the leather sack. I place it on the grass before me.
It is a sorry sight indeed, and I smile. They have not attempted to unpick the stitches from his remaining eye, but the green apple and rose thorns have been plucked from his mouth. The head groans, showing the yellow stumps of teeth.
“I win again!” I cry. “Despite all that your followers attempted, you are still in my power. The kretch and your servants are dead!”
The Fiend does not reply. Even when I prod the lid of the stitched eye hard with a stick, it does not flicker. The head is cold, still, and silent, almost as if the Fiend has deserted it and returned to the dark. But that cannot be, because he is trapped within it.
He does not reply because, for now, he is defeated. I have won, his followers are slain, and he cannot bear to confront the victor. I have damaged him badly, and I feel deeply satisfied.
I no longer have an apple or thorns at my disposal. Instead I use a tangle of nettles and hawthorn twigs, ramming them into the Fiend’s mouth with considerable force. Then, with a smile of triumph, I thrust the head back into the sack.
This stage of our battle against the Fiend’s servants has ended successfully. No doubt soon there will be another threat. So now it is vital that Tom Ward travels to Malkin Tower to study what his mother has bequeathed to him. I will offer him all the help he needs so that he can discover the means by which we can destroy the Fiend forever!
CREDITS
COVER ART © 2012 BY PATRICK ARRASMITH
COVER DESIGN BY CHAD W. BECKERMAN AND PAUL ZAKRIS
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
The Last Apprentice: Grimalkin the Witch Assassin
Text copyright © 2012 by Joseph Delaney
First published in 2011 in Great Britain by The Bodley Head, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, under the title I Am Grimalkin.
First published in 2012 in the United States by Greenwillow Books.
The right of Joseph Delaney to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Illustrations copyright © 2012 by Patrick Arrasmith
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Delaney, Joseph, (date.)
Grimalkin the witch assassin / by Joseph Delaney ;
illustrations by Patrick Arrasmith.
p. cm.—(The last apprentice ; 9)
“Greenwillow Books.”
Summary: Provides insights into the life of Grimalkin, one of the deadliest witches in the country, if not the world, whose uneasy truce with the Spook’s apprentice, Tom, unites them against the ultimate evil of the Fiend.
ISBN 978-0-06-208207-7 (trade bdg.)
EPub Edition © MARCH 2012 ISBN 9780062082091
[1. Witches—Fiction. 2. Apprentices—Fiction. 3. Supernatural—Fiction. 4. Horror stories.] I. Arrasmith, Patrick, ill. II. Title.
PZ7.D373183Gri 2012 [Fic] —dc232011029552
12 13 14 15 16 LP/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
DEDICATION
FOR MARIE
CONTENTS
Dedication
Chapter I - Time to Rebuild
Chapter II - Sacred Objects
Chapter III - Lots of Blood!
Chapter V - Another Use for the Girl
Chapter VI - Half a Tale
Chapter VII - Crossing It Is Dangerous
Chapter VIII - A Study of the Moroii
Chapter IX - Seventh Sons
Chapter X - Cowardly Panic
Chapter XI - The Curse Of the Pendle Witches
Chapter XII - Worse Than Death
Chapter XIII - I Won’t See Dawn
Chapter XIV - They’ll Expand Westward
Chapter XV - The Vampire God
Chapter XVI - The Offal Pit
Chapter XVII - The Pact
Chapter XVIII - The Most Dangerous Place
Chapter XIX - The Terms of the Contract
Chapter XX - Just Like Old Times
Chapter XXI - Empty Eye Sockets
Chapter XXII - Let Them Come to Us!
Chapter XXIII - Midnight Until Dawn
Chapter XXIV - Coward
Chapter XXV - The Midnight Hour
Chapter XXVI - The Spook’s Blood
Credits
Copyright
LURE OF THE DEAD
CHAPTER I
TIME TO REBUILD
THE Spook was perched on a log in his garden at Chipenden, the sun singing through the trees and the air bright with birdsong. It was a warm spring morning in late May—as good as it got in the County. Things seemed to be changing for the better. I was sitting on the grass, wolfing down my breakfast, and he was smiling to himself and looking quite contented for a change as he gazed back toward the house.
From it came the sound of sawing; I could smell the sawdust. My master’s house was being repaired, starting with the roof. It had been burned out by enemy soldiers, but now the war in the County was over, and it was time to rebuild and get on with our lives as a Spook and his apprentice dealing with all manner of things from the dark—boggarts, ghosts, ghasts, and witches.
The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection Page 191