“How bad is it?” Judd asked, finally waylaying one old man who was struggling up the muddy path with the aid of a walking stick.
“They’re murdering children!” he exclaimed. “What could be worse than that? And they killed armed soldiers too. Who’s going to protect us now?”
I exchanged glances with Judd. No doubt, like me, he was hoping that they’d just picked off a few of the men from Burnley, maybe ambushed a small reconnaissance patrol that the captain had sent out. But it was worse than that—far worse.
The soldiers had camped on the top of the western moor within sight of Todmorden. Now they were all dead. Captain Horrocks had been decapitated. He lay on his back with his head between his boots. The embers of their fires were still smoking, and they lay where they had been slaughtered, their throats ripped out. Some were on their backs, murdered as they awoke. Others had tried to run. None had gotten very far. Their corpses were covered in flies, and the stench of blood made me retch.
We passed by without comment. I exchanged grim looks with Alice and Judd, but Grimalkin simply stared fixedly ahead, her face resolute. She had seen death many times and was no doubt hardened to it. There was, in any case, nothing to be done and too many for us to bury. The army would have to come and claim its own, but that might not be for many days.
When we got our first clear view of the west bank of the river, the town looked deserted. Soon we were walking through the cobbled streets toward the inn. We arrived just as the landlord was about to lock the front door. It had been mended since we were last there.
“You’re going nowhere!” Judd said, pushing him back into the inn.
“You’ve a nerve coming back here!” he said. “Because of what you did, the pact is over. By keeping to the agreement we’ve managed to live here safely for many years. We’re all food now!”
“And which of the townsfolk made the pact?” asked Judd. “Were you one of them?”
The man nodded. “There were three of us. The mayor, the grocer, and me—the three wealthiest citizens—and when we did it, just over two years ago, things were very different. I didn’t realize how quickly things would go into decline and folks would leave. We did it for everybody—to save lives. Most people were scared to go anywhere near the foreigners, but we crossed the river and signed in our own blood. It was the best thing to do in the circumstances. Provided we gave them what they needed, they left us alone. But now the pact’s over, and they’re out for revenge. I’ve got to get away from here. Once it’s dark, I’m as good as dead! Mistress Fresque said I’m next on their list!”
Judd looked at us in turn and raised his eyebrows. We all nodded. There was no point in holding the terrified innkeeper here. He was thrust outside, and his bundle of belongings thrown after him. Then we barred all the doors and waited for the first attack.
Outside, the breeze had died away almost to nothing and the night was warm. So we didn’t make a fire but settled down in the small dining room, close to the bar. We didn’t even light a candle, allowing our eyes to adjust to the dark as best they could.
After about an hour we heard noises outside: a faint sniffing and scratching at the door, like a pet seeking entry. We kept perfectly still. Next we heard a growl, as if the creature had lost patience and wanted to get in immediately.
Suddenly the door bulged inward, creaking and groaning on its hinges. Our attacker was almost certainly one of the moroi using the body of a bear. This was the means by which our enemies would force entry.
Grimalkin eased a throwing blade from its sheath. Once the head of the bear became visible, it was as good as dead. Her blade would find one of its eyes. But as soon as the door crashed open, the bear dropped onto all fours and bounded away, giving her no clear shot. I heard her whistle through her pointy teeth in frustration.
All was silent again, but now we had a view of the cobbled street through the open doorway. In the middle distance, figures moved into view. There seemed to be three. Two were wearing capes and looked female; the nearer one was carrying a torch, and in its flickering light I could see her savage mouth and taloned hands. They were witches, without doubt. But the third figure was a man I recognized: the innkeeper. He hadn’t managed to escape the town after all. Now he was their prisoner, and his hands were bound behind his back. It was like watching a tableau, a play put on for our benefit. But it soon became clear that this was no play, but a matter of life and death.
“Now you will see what happens to those who defy us!” cried the witch holding the torch.
I found it hard to make sense of what happened next. Something seemed to float down from the sky and land directly in front of the innkeeper. But how was that possible? Witches couldn’t fly. The idea that they ride broomsticks is just a silly superstition. The figure moved closer to its victim.
“No! It wasn’t my fault!” the innkeeper shouted, his voice shrill with terror. “Spare me, please. Don’t take my life, lord! I always did what you asked. I was generous. I gave—”
There was suddenly a thin, high-pitched scream—it sounded like one of the pigs being slaughtered by Snout, the pig butcher back on the farm. The noise hung in the air, growing fainter and fainter. The innkeeper slumped to his knees and then fell forward onto his face.
Grimalkin drew a throwing blade and stepped forward as if to attack the witches. We prepared to follow her, but before we could do so, our enemies took the initiative.
One of the figures—the one that had somehow dropped down from the sky—started to move toward us. There was something odd about its gait. It seemed to be gliding rather than walking. Nearer and nearer it came, until it filled the whole of the open doorway and started to drift into the room.
To my right, Alice lifted a candle stub and muttered a spell under her breath, igniting the wick. In my time as the Spook’s apprentice I had seen many horrors, but there before me, lit by that flickering yellow flame, was something that outdid them all. The effect on me was bad enough—I began to tremble and my heart tried to thump its way out of my chest—but Judd must have been truly horrified at what manifested itself before us.
Floating there was a woman. We seemed to be looking at her naked body, but something was terribly wrong. Her form was translucent; the candle flame showed what lay within. It was not inflated to its full taut shape. The bones and flesh were missing, and it was filled—bloated may be a better word—with blood. The skin was whole, but there were just two blemishes: a horizontal scar around the neck, where the head had been reattached to the body, and an area of puckered stitching over the heart.
It was the skin of Cosmina.
The mouth moved and spoke in a deep masculine growl: “I am Siscoi, the Lord of Blood, the Drinker of Souls! Obey me now, or you will suffer as few have suffered. Give to us what we seek and I will be merciful! I will kill you quickly. There will be little pain.”
Grimalkin hurled a dagger straight at the throat of the grotesque figure, but the blade skittered away harmlessly, as if deflected by some invisible shield.
CHAPTER XXIII
MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN
IF this was indeed Siscoi, he wasn’t at all what I’d expected. He wasn’t using a host grown from the blood and offal in the pit. This seemed to be some bizarre form of possession—yet the skin was filled with blood, and given that the innkeeper had just died, some of it was probably his. The god could probably take our blood, too—we were all in danger.
I lifted my staff and prepared to attack. I started to concentrate. I would use my most powerful gift—the ability to slow time. I’d employed it successfully when we’d bound the Fiend, and he was more powerful than any of the Old Gods, so I was confident that it would work here. But I’d hardly begun the process when Grimalkin snapped out a command:
“You deal with it, Alice!”
In response, Alice lifted her left hand and began to mutter a spell; then, taking us all by surprise, Judd raced past us and, with a bloodcurdling yell, drove the blade of his staff into the body�
��at the very point where he’d previously impaled Cosmina’s heart. I expected his blade to be deflected, but to my surprise it pierced the skin.
There was an explosion of blood. It went everywhere, and I was blinded for a few moments. When I’d wiped it out of my eyes, through the blood dripping from the ceiling, I saw that Judd was kneeling on the floor, sobbing. He was gazing down at something—the ribbon of bloody skin that had once been Cosmina.
The two witches who’d accompanied Siscoi fled immediately, and there were no further attacks. The remainder of the night was quiet.
At dawn we found some lamp oil and used it to burn the skin. It sizzled on the wet cobbles, giving off a terrible smell, but it had to be done. Judd wasn’t prepared to bury Cosmina’s remains again.
We crouched there in silence until it was over. Drizzle came down out of a gray sky, washing the blood from our faces and hair.
“Do you feel like talking about it?” I asked at last. “Was that really Siscoi? Was it some form of possession?”
Judd nodded. “Yes, it was possession of a kind. Siscoi can animate the skin of a newly buried corpse. But first his servants remove the bones and cut the skin away from the muscle. Then the god may visit the close relatives of the dead, enjoying their anguish. At first the skin he inhabits is just filled with air. Then, as he begins to feed, it turns red, filling up with the blood of his victim. The process involves powerful dark magic. But whether I’d dealt with him or not, he couldn’t have stayed in that form for very long. That type of possession lasts only a few minutes.”
It made me sick to think of what had been done. After Judd had buried the body of Cosmina, it had been dug up again, almost certainly that very night, and the process he’d described carried out.
“How was it that your blade proved successful while mine failed?” Grimalkin asked.
“Close kin and those who love the deceased have the power to end the possession with a blade; even knitting needles have been used by outraged and grief-stricken widows. Of course the victims don’t usually fight back. Siscoi simply takes their blood, and they die.”
“Did you harm him with your blade?” Alice asked. “Will he be less powerful now?”
Judd shook his head. “No doubt he felt some sort of pain, but that will only make him angrier and more determined. He can briefly possess both the living and the dead without using a portal or the magic of witches. But he is most dangerous when he animates a host grown with the help of witches. He’ll have from midnight until dawn to wreak havoc. I don’t want to be anywhere nearby when that happens.”
“Then I think you should go back to Chipenden,” said Grimalkin.
Judd looked at her in astonishment, and then his expression hardened. “Look! I’m not a coward!” he exclaimed angrily. “I’m just stating the facts, that’s all. I want to stay here and play my part, but I’m sure we’re all going to die.”
Grimalkin smiled at him without showing her teeth. “Nobody doubts your bravery, despite your betrayal of John Gregory. You have been through things that would have broken most men. But you have suffered enough. Go back and help John Gregory for a while. The house and garden may yet come under attack.”
Judd opened his mouth to protest again but suddenly fell silent. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Alice muttering to herself.
“Yes, you’re right,” he said, coming to his feet, a bewildered expression on his face. “Mr. Gregory will need help. He could be in danger as we speak. I might as well get started right away—I need to get back as soon as possible.”
I was annoyed: Alice had used dark magic to make him change his mind. But when I opened my mouth to speak, she laid a finger against her lips and smiled sweetly. One part of me wanted to protest; I thought Judd would be more useful here. But I knew that Alice must have a good reason for what she’d done. So I kept quiet. And within five minutes, Judd Brinscall had gathered his things, said a brief farewell, and set off for Chipenden.
“Why?” I asked once we were back inside the inn. “We need all the help we can get.”
“We three alone have the speed, skill, and power to do what must be done,” said Grimalkin. “You have the Destiny Blade and Bone Cutter, in addition to the talents inherited from your mother. Alice wields powerful magic, and I am Grimalkin. To send him away is a kindness—a quality that I show only rarely. But despite his past failings, Judd is a competent spook and a strong enemy of the Fiend. We need all the allies we can get. He must live to serve our cause again, should it prove necessary. If he stays with us, he will surely die. Tonight we must attack our enemies and prevent Siscoi from entering the world.”
“Tonight? I thought we were going to allow them to attack us and deplete their strength first?” I exclaimed.
“They have a new host growing in the offal pit, Tom,” Alice said. “And this very night, the surviving witches will combine their strength to open the portal, allowing Siscoi to animate it.”
“How can you know that?” I asked.
“Alice scryed it,” Grimalkin replied.
“You can scry?”
Alice nodded, her face serious.
“That’s just one of the talents that Alice has hidden for so long,” said Grimalkin. “Scrying is never totally certain. There are variables—things that constantly change and affect outcomes—but I have faith in Alice’s information. These witches rarely meet in the flesh. They much prefer to appear as orbs of light above the trees. But tonight is different: to open the portal they need to be together, and Alice has discovered the place where they plan to gather. We will kill them all.”
“They’re going to use the house where Mistress Fresque and her strigoi partner lived,” Alice told me.
That made sense. Thanks to Judd, I knew that Romanian witches were very private and didn’t like any other witches seeing into their homes.
“That’s the house that shifts its shape,” I said. “That could be a problem. You can’t be certain of anything in there.”
“We’ll take care of that,” said Grimalkin. “We’re about to find out who has the stronger magic—those from Romania or those from Pendle.”
Alice said nothing, but a little smile turned up the corners of her mouth.
We spent the remainder of the day preparing for our attack. The town was deserted, and we took up temporary residence at the smithy. There Grimalkin sharpened her blades and forged three more to replace those she had been unable to retrieve.
I had no need to sharpen the Destiny Blade—its edge was always ready for blood—but I cleaned it carefully, and the ruby eyes set into the hilt glowed as I did so. Nor did the dagger require sharpening, but I did attend to the silver-alloy blade of my new staff.
I showed Bone Cutter to Grimalkin. She turned it over and over in her hands, inspecting it carefully. “It’s a formidable weapon,” she said, “a smaller version of the sword. I wonder if the dagger that lies within the dark is a replica of this.”
As Grimalkin spoke those words, I looked across at Alice, my heart lurching at the thought that she was supposed to retrieve it. But Alice wasn’t listening. For most of the afternoon she had been sitting cross-legged on the stone floor, oblivious to the clash and clang from the forge, her eyes closed. When I had tried to speak to her, she made no response. It seemed to me that while her body was present, her mind, and perhaps her soul, was far away. In some mysterious way she was focusing her power for the struggle that lay ahead.
At last it started to grow dark, and we were ready to leave for the sinister house on Bent Lane.
CHAPTER XXIV
COWARD
“ALICE, could you hide the sack for me?” Grimalkin asked. “If the worst comes to the worst and we do not return, I would like to make its discovery as difficult as possible for our enemies. Your magic is stronger than mine.”
That was praise indeed from the witch assassin. In addition to her formidable combat skills, Grimalkin had strong magic of her own. But I had seen with my own eyes what Alice was capable
of. I wondered just how powerful she really was. It hurt to know that, although we had been close friends for years, she had hidden so much from me.
Alice nodded and reached for the leather sack. As she did so, we heard the sound of coarse laughter. But the sound seemed to come from the ground beneath our feet. The very flagstones were vibrating.
“Let’s see what the old fool finds so amusing!” Grimalkin said.
She undid the cord that bound the head, lifted it out by the horns, and placed it on the anvil. It was a terrible sight—even worse than last time. One eye was still stitched shut, the other a gaping ruin. Skin was flaking from the forehead, boils forming all over the face, as if the evil within was forcing its way to the surface.
Grimalkin tugged out the nettles and twigs so that the Fiend could speak. This time the laughter issued from the mouth, not the ground. It went on for a long time. Grimalkin waited patiently. I looked at the stumps of the teeth that she had shattered with her hammer when we’d bound him back in Kenmare, and at the crusted dried blood on his face. His situation was dire. What could he find so amusing?
“You seem to be in good spirits, but in truth you have never been lower or closer to final defeat!” Grimalkin said when the laughter finally ceased.
“You are proud and arrogant, witch!” growled the Fiend. “With your two eyes you see less than I do. Siscoi is the greatest of my present servants. Soon he will free me from captivity and take all your blood. How reckless you are, witch, to bring me so close to him! You could not have made his task easier!”
“You have already lost many servants, fool,” Grimalkin retorted. “Prepare to lose another! They have died or been defeated by those who face you now. We are the most powerful of your many enemies! Before this night is through, Siscoi will be destroyed or damaged so badly that he will be of no further use to your cause.”
The Fiend laughed again. “It will not happen, witch, because this boy, upon whose scrawny shoulders rests your slim hope of victory, is a coward. He has already fled in terror from my servants, and will do so again!”
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