The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection

by Joseph Delaney

  I went in, sat down on the edge of the bed, and stared hard at the pair of them. They were sat straight up, blankets pulled up to their chins, arms around each other. Couldn’t tell which one was shaking the most. I grinned at them and scratched at my itchy head. A worm dropped out of my hair and began to wriggle around on the coverlet.

  “Might let you both live,” I told them. “Might let your children live, too. But you’ve got to do exactly what I say.”

  “Don’t hurt us, please,” begged the farmer. “We’ll do anything. Anything at all.”

  I smiled. “All you have to do is get Matthew Carter to come here again. Make sure he arrives after dark, mind. Must be after dark—that’s important. Round about midnight would be best. Just tell him another witch has been bothering you. And you need him here to sort her.”

  “What if he won’t come?” asked the trembling farmer, his eyes wide with fear.

  “Well, in that case don’t bother coming back. Because if you do, you’ll find your family dead.”

  He left before dawn, but I stayed close to the house and buried myself under a pile of straw in the barn until it was dark again. Just the tip of my bony nose was sticking out.

  At dusk, that’s where the child found me. The eldest daughter—no more than five years old, she was; plump little thing, too. I could smell blood pumping through her warm body, and it took all my willpower to let her live. I didn’t want to have the mother in hysterics again. She had to be calm and peaceful when Matthew Carter arrived.

  “When it goes dark,” said the child, “my mother turns all the mirrors in the house to the wall.”

  “Then she’s a wise mother. That’ll stop witches spying on you and your family.”

  “But you’re a witch and my mother says I should keep away from you,” said the child.

  “Mothers know best,” I told her, “so perhaps you should.”

  “What’s it like being a dead witch?”

  “Itchy, child,” I told her, scratching at my head. “Very itchy.”

  “I could comb your hair if you like,” the child offered.

  She ran off and, five minutes later, came back with a comb. I had planned to kill her and the rest of her family eventually, but as she was combing the worms and insects out of my hair, I relented. I’d just kill the old farmer.

  “Go back to your mother and tell her to take you and your sister as far away as possible from here,” I told her. “And don’t come back until well after dawn. Tell her to go right away. It’s the only way to save your lives.”

  I watched from the doorway of the barn as the mother took her children to safety, waddling like a duck as she set off on her little legs. Now I had to get myself ready. This time I would be the one waiting in ambush. Firstly I lit the entrance and the stairs well, using half a dozen candles.

  A dead witch slowly loses her control of dark magic. But I hadn’t been dead long, and I had enough left for what was needed.

  I heard the men approaching the front door. The old farmer had done well. I guessed that two would be planning to wait inside the house, like last time. I wasn’t disappointed; luckily Matthew Carter was one of them. He came through the doorway first.

  I smiled at him from the top of the stairs. “Why don’t we two have a little chat, handsome Matthew?” I suggested pleasantly, giving him my sweetest smile. “Just you and me alone together in the bedroom . . .”

  As he started to climb the stairs toward me, his tongue was hanging further out than a hungry dog’s at the sight of fresh meat. Below, his companion looked very disappointed at not being invited into my company.

  I was using the dark magic spells glamour and fascination, of course. The first could make even a dead witch appear extremely attractive; the second would have made him climb those stairs anyway.

  “Come and sit next to me on the bed,” I bade the quisitor, closing the door behind us. “Why don’t we start with a little kiss?”

  He did as I suggested, but just before his lips fastened on mine, the eager expression on his face turned to one of dismay. He’d smelled the real me: the stench of rot and decay, of dark damp loam and moldy leaves. Then I uncloaked myself from the spell, and his dismay turned to terror.

  As I started to feed, Matthew Carter screamed louder than the little pink pig I’d killed the previous night. I plunged my teeth deep into his neck and drained him with great hungry gulps. I felt the throb of his blood start to become erratic. Soon his heart stopped beating. Now he was Dead Matthew, and no longer of any interest to me.

  I killed the second man in the doorway. The third and fourth were hiding in the barn, but I soon sniffed them out. There were others, but they ran off in panic. Only the old farmer stayed. He thought his wife and children were still inside the house.

  I’d had more blood than I needed and was full to bursting. Even so, I passed close to the old farmer as I walked across the yard—close enough to start his knees knocking.

  “I’ve decided to let you live. But next time a witch begs at your gate,” I warned him, “give her what she asks for.”

  Then I was gone, heading back south toward Witch Dell.

  There’s something else I forgot to tell you. After I’d died, I couldn’t remember the name of the madwoman again. Strained my dead brain, but it just wouldn’t come. Now I’m a lot weaker and can’t walk anymore. Even a dead witch doesn’t last forever. And though my memories are slipping away fast, odd fragments keep coming back.

  I can see that daft girl now as she’s running past me on her way to knife the Fiend. And now I’ve remembered she was a Malkin, and her name’s on the tip of my tongue. . . . the very tip. If only I could remember! I’d write it down, then and our clan would seek her out for sure. She can’t hide forever. There are too many of us, and she can’t defeat us all.

  It’ll be light soon, so I got to crawl back to the dell. Maybe I’ll remember and write it down tomorrow night. That’s if my fingers haven’t dropped off. And if I can still remember the way here. . . .

  Alice and the Brain Guzzler

  CHAPTER I

  My Name Is Alice Deane

  MY name is Alice Deane, and I was born into the Pendle witch clans. Didn’t want to be a witch, did I? But sometimes you’ve no choice and things just happen.

  I remember the night my aunt, Bony Lizzie, came for me. Like to think I was upset, but I don’t remember crying. My mam and dad had been cold and dead in the damp earth for three days, and I still hadn’t managed to shed a single tear—though it wasn’t for want of trying. Tried to remember the good times, I really did. And there were a few, despite the fact that they fought like cat and dog and clouted me even harder than they hit each other. I mean, you should be upset, shouldn’t you? It’s your own mam and dad and they’ve just died, so you should be able to squeeze out one tear at least.

  I was staying with my other aunt, Agnes Sowerbutts. She’d taken me in and wanted to bring me up proper and give me a good start in life. Fat chance of that!

  The day had been a scorcher, and there was a bad summer storm that night—forks of devil lightning sizzling across the sky and crashes of thunder shaking the walls of the cottage and rattling the pots and pans. But that was nowt compared to what Lizzie did. There was a hammering at the door fit to wake the rotting dead, and when Agnes drew back the bolt, Bony Lizzie strode into the room, her black hair matted with rain, water streaming from her cape to cascade onto the stone flags. Agnes was scared, but she stood her ground, placing herself between me and Lizzie.

  “Leave the girl alone!” she said calmly, trying to be brave. “Her home is with me now. She’ll be well looked after, don’t you worry.”

  Lizzie’s first response was a sneer. They say there’s a family resemblance and that I’m the spitting image of her. But I could never have twisted my face the way she did that night. It was enough to turn the milk sour or send the cat shrieking up the chimney as if Old Nick himself was reaching for its tail.

  “The girl belongs to
me, Sowerbutts,” Lizzie said, her voice cold and quiet, filled with malice. “We share the same dark blood. I can teach her what she has to know. I’m the one she needs.”

  “Alice needn’t be a witch like you!” Agnes retorted. “Her mam and dad weren’t witches, so why should she follow your dark path? Leave her be. Leave the girl with me and get about your business.”

  “She has the blood of a witch inside her and that’s enough!” Lizzie hissed angrily. “You’re just an outsider and not fit to raise the girl.”

  It wasn’t true. Agnes was a Deane, all right, but she’d married a good man from Whalley, an ironmonger. When he died, she’d returned to Roughlee, where the Deane witch clan made its home.

  “I’m her aunt and I’ll be a mother to her now,” Agnes retorted. She still spoke bravely, but her face was pale, and now I could see her plump chin wobbling, her hands fluttering and trembling with fear.

  Next thing, Lizzie stamped her left foot. It was as easy as that. In the twinkling of an eye, the fire died in the grate, the candles flickered and went out, and the whole room became instantly dark, cold, and terrifying. I heard Agnes scream with fear; I was screaming myself and desperate to get out. I would have run through the door, jumped through a window, or even scrabbled my way up the chimney—I’d have done anything, just to escape.

  I did get out, but with Lizzie at my side. She just seized me by the wrist and dragged me off into the night. It was no use trying to resist. She was too strong, and she held me tight, her nails digging into my skin. I belonged to her now, and there was no way she was ever going to let me go. And that night she began my training as a witch. It was the start of all my troubles.

  That first night in her cottage was the worst. Lizzie started off by showing me the crone she used as her servant. The old woman was standing outside the front door, leaning back against the window ledge, and didn’t look too friendly.

  She was old, all right, and big and ugly, too, with long gray hair hanging almost to her waist. She wore a dirty smock, but her short sleeves showed big, muscly, hairy arms that could easily have belonged to a man. Didn’t like the look of her one bit. She just stared at me—didn’t say a word.

  “Her name is Nanna Nuckle, and she’s a very useful servant,” Lizzie told me. “Only problem is, she can’t go outside in daylight. So she sleeps then. Good at lifting big iron pots and at keeping disobedient girls in check, though. Best do as you’re told, girl. She’ll be watching you.”

  Soon as we got inside, she locked me in a room without a window. Ain’t many times in my life I’ve been as scared as that. It was so dark I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face. Didn’t smell good either. Something had died in there recently. Not sure if it was animal or human—maybe something in between. But it had breathed its last, slowly and in great pain. Didn’t take much sniffing to work that out.

  Sniffing is a gift. Born that way, I was. Always been able to do it. But I didn’t know then that you could be trained so that it would become a powerful sense, almost as useful as the eyes in your head. That was the first lesson Lizzie gave me. Dragged me out of that stinky dark room well before dawn and took me outside. There were three small fires burning, and above each, a black bubbling iron pot with a wooden lid.

  “Well, girl,” Lizzie said, that sneer on her face again, “let’s see how strong your gift is. In one of those pots is your breakfast. Find it, and you’ll eat well. Lift the wrong lid, and you’ll eat what’s inside anyway. Either that, or it’ll eat you!”

  After the storm, the air was much cooler, and shivering with cold and fear, I stared at the three pots for a long time, watching the lids twitch and jerk as the water bubbled and the steam rose. At last Lizzie lost patience and gripped my shoulder hard, pushing me close to the pot on the left.

  “Get on with it, girl, if you know what’s good for you!”

  I was scared of Lizzie and she was hurting my shoulder, her sharp nails pressing right into the flesh as if searching for my bones, so I did what she said. I sniffed three times.

  Didn’t smell good. Something wick in there, I felt sure; something alive when it ought to be dead; something thin and twiggy but still moving in that bubbly, boiling water.

  Lizzie dragged me along to face the center pot. Sniffed three times again and didn’t like what was inside that one either. Something soft and squishy, it was. Something that once grew in the ground—but not fit to eat, I was sure of that. One bite of what was inside would boil your blood, make your eyes swell and pop right out of your head. Didn’t want to eat that any more than what was in the first pot.

  The third pot contained rabbit—tender, delicious pieces of it, melting off the bone and almost ready to eat. One sniff and I knew that for sure.

  “This one,” I said. “I’ll eat rabbit for breakfast.” I lifted the lid to prove that I was right.

  “That was easy enough, girl, but you’re right—this morning you’ll enjoy your breakfast,” Lizzie said. “Now, let’s see what’s in the middle pot. What do you think it is?”

  “Something poisonous. Just one mouthful and you’d be dead.”

  “But what kind of poison?” demanded Lizzie. “Can you tell me the ingredients?”

  I shook my head and sniffed again. “Maybe toadstools . . . not sure.”

  “Lift the lid and take a look!”

  I replaced the lid on my breakfast and lifted the one over the center pot. Stepped back right away, I did. Didn’t want to breathe in that poisonous steam. There were pieces of toadstool churning in the boiling water.

  “Nine different toadstools in there,” Lizzie told me. “By the end of the month, with just three sniffs you’ll know every one by name. You’ve a lot of work ahead of you, girl, but the gift is strong inside you. Just needs developing, that’s all. Now try the third lid.”

  This pot really scared me. What lay within? What could survive in that boiling water? As I hesitated, Lizzie dug her nails deeper into my shoulder, hurting me so much that, despite my fear, I reached for the lid.

  As I slowly lifted it, Lizzie released me and stepped back. I got the shock of my life. Almost wet myself, I did. A small evil-looking face was watching me from within the pot. The head of the creature was just above the boiling water, but I couldn’t see its body. Suddenly it leaped at my face. I dropped the lid and ducked.

  It went straight over my head. I turned and saw that it had landed high on Lizzie’s chest, its ugly head nestling at her throat. It convulsed and burrowed down into her dress, hiding.

  “This is Old Spig, my familiar,” Lizzie said with a fond smile. “He’s my eyes, nose, and ears. Doesn’t miss much, does Old Spig. So you do as you’re told, girl, or he’ll find you out. And once he tells me, you’ll be in real trouble. Then I’ll teach you all about pain. . . .”

  That was my first sight of Lizzie’s familiar. Mostly she was a witch who used bone magic, but for Lizzie, Old Spig was well worth his keep. He was scary, and from that first time I set eyes on him, I knew he’d give me trouble.

  After tucking into that delicious rabbit, I felt a bit better. And for the rest of that day, all I had to do was a few household chores; it wasn’t so different to what I’d been doing while staying with Agnes. I had to lay the cooking fire, wash the pots, pans, and cutlery, and prepare a lamb stew for our evening meal. Nanna Nuckle didn’t help; she stayed in her room all day because she couldn’t stand daylight. She wasn’t a witch, so I couldn’t understand why this was. But when I asked Lizzie, she just told me to mind my own business.

  Didn’t do much cleaning, though, except in my own room. It seemed that Lizzie liked the cottage to be dirty. Made her feel comfortable. There was one room I wasn’t allowed inside—I reckoned it was the one where Old Spig spent most of his time, and I didn’t like the sounds that were coming out of there. Couldn’t hear Spig, but something was whining like it was in pain, so I kept well clear.

  But, looking on the bright side, I’d survived Lizzie’s first test. Old Spig scared me ro
tten, but apart from him, maybe living with Lizzie wouldn’t be quite as bad as I’d expected.

  “Are you brave, girl?” Lizzie asked me once I’d finished my work. “A witch needs to be brave! I’ve got something in mind that only a really brave girl can cope with.”

  I nodded at Bony Lizzie. I didn’t want to admit that I was scared, but my teeth were chattering with fear, and she smiled at my discomfort as if it gave her pleasure. The sun had been down about half an hour, and we were standing in her small front room, which was very gloomy. A single candle made from black wax was flickering on the mantelpiece, filling the corners with strange shadows.

  “Are you strong, girl?”

  “Strong for my age,” I told her, nodding again, my voice quavering.

  “Well, all you have to do is go down into Witch Dell and bring me back a special jug. You’ll find it buried close to the trunk of the tallest oak there. Dig where the moon casts the tree’s shadow at midnight!”

  My whole body began to shake then. The dell was full of dead witches. They came out at night, looking for blood.

  “Are you going to be a witch, girl?” Lizzie asked. “Is that what you want?”

  I didn’t really want to become a witch, but to say no would have made Lizzie really angry, so I nodded for the third time.

  “Then don’t be a-feared of dead witches. Besides, those down in the dell won’t do you much harm. They’re all sisters in death. They don’t bother one another much and they won’t bother you. Get ye gone, but be sure to be back afore dawn. What’s in the jug will spoil in daylight!”

  CHAPTER II

  A Witch You’ll Always Be

  WITCH Dell was north of the Devil’s Triangle, the three villages where the Malkins, Deanes, and Mouldheels made their homes. It was a clear night, the moon waxing to three quarters full. Pendle Hill, to the west, was bathed in silver light, and so bright was that moonshine that only two stars in the sky were visible.