Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters (50 page)

Burban’s great
big eyes fell half-mast. “You sure, lad?”

Bram wasn’t
sure, but what else was there to do. He nodded. “He may know what
happened to Nettle.” Whoever he was, he’d followed Nettle back to
the cottage intent on speaking with her. Surely he knew what had
befallen his sister.

Burban made a
gesture as though he agreed, though somewhat reluctantly, and Bram
briefly worried that he was going to resist his instructions. But a
moment later he heard the rustling of leaves and branches straining
against one another as Burban unravelled a few branches, easing
apart the netting effect to create a small peep hole for him to
peer through.

Spix, like the
others, hung back, nervous of the rosewood copse. Bram stepped
closer to peer through the gap. He saw a boy with a shock of
silvery blond hair standing in the middle of the driveway, his
hands shoved in the pockets of his midnight-blue jacket, a scarf
wrapped about his neck. He looked about the same age as Jazz, but
there was an air of confidence about him that belied the appearance
of his age. “Who are you?” Bram called out.

The boy
searched for where the voice came from and found the peep-hole in
the copse. “Hello there.”

Bram
cautiously stared - was he just a harmless boy or was there
something more to him? “Who are you and what are you doing
here?”

“
The name’s Jack,” he replied, and began to approach the copse
with long lazy strides. “I’ve come to speak with the girl with the
black hair.”

Bram projected
his voice, hoping it sounded older and authoritative. “Nettle’s my
sister. What do you want with her?”

The boy’s
eyebrows arched shrewdly. “I’m assuming she’s not in a particularly
healthy state of mind, since you’re the one asking questions and
she’s not.”

“
Why do you suppose that?” Bram said, frowning.

Jack started
to look annoyed. “She’s always struck me as the type of girl that’s
always in the thick of things, meddling about with things that have
nothing to do with her. Far too inquisitive for her own good.
Acting without regard to her own safety. She’s got a sharp tongue
on her. Bossy, some might say, and let’s not forget impertinent,”
he was about to add more, when he stopped himself with a short
shake of the head. He rolled his shoulders as if releasing some
pent up tension, and blew out a long breath. “I’d imagine, if she
were able, she’d be here demanding answers from me instead of you,”
he finished, a little more quietly.

He was kind-of
right, even if perhaps his description of Nettle was a bit harsh.
At the very least, it made Bram feel a bit better to know that this
Jack had actually met his sister. Bram glanced back at the cottage
- Nettle sat where he’d left her, she hadn’t moved an inch. He
wasn’t sure how much he should give away, but not saying anything
wasn’t going to help his sister. His mouth down-turned. “She’s
practically comatose.”

Jack had
reached the copse and stood only a meter away. He bent his knees
and leaned to one side so he could get a better view of Bram. “I
rather expected as much,” he said, meeting Bram’s gaze with
interest.

Bram could see
his black leather boots were tied with bright gold laces. Mud clung
to their soles and had splattered up the back of his jeans, as if
he’d run all the way here. He was tall with a lean physique, and
there was something very striking about his features, an odd
mixture between the open frankness of a sun-bleached surfer, and
the smooth aloofness of a Greek sculpture.

“Her
younger
brother, I’m assuming,” Jack guessed. “Though there’s
little resemblance between the two of you.”

Bram ignored
him. “What happened to her?”

Jack smiled,
straightening. His voice took on a silky suggestive tone, and he
turned a hand over to inspect his fingernails with a distracted
air. “Why don’t you let me in. While I help your sister recover I
can answer all your questions then.”

“
NO!!!” Burban boomed, startling Bram and the spriggans. A few
sparrows, newly roosted, took flight with fright. He’d swivelled
around to glare at Jack, his expression ugly. The stems sprouting
from his head had twisted about in a tight knot.

“
No?” Jack looked slightly amused. “And might I enquire as to
why you’re declining me?”

Burban’s voice rumbled out across the clearing. “BECAUSE
YOU’RE A GOBLIN IS WOT!” All down around the cottage were Burban’s
companions echoing the same sentiment –
GOBLIN… GOBLIN… GOBLIN
BEWARE!

Bram recoiled, completely taken by surprise.
“
Huh
?” All he’d ever had as a reference to goblins were
pictures of horrible creatures with sharp teeth and leathery skin
with a penchant for stealing babies. He gave Spix a bewildered
look. “But he looks far too pretty… Aren’t goblins hideous and
hunch-backed with slimy green skin?”

The boy - or goblin, as Burban would have him believe -
overheard. He shot a highly offended glare and Bram noticed his
violet eyes. “No, we’re not.
Hideous
indeed - such ignorance.” For a moment Bram felt a
crushing sort of dreadfulness for his impertinence, until the
corner of the boys mouth twitched and a mischievous glint entered
his eyes. “Although you might be right about the Ferralese side of
the family.” He pushed a sleeve up and inspected his arm with an
amused look. “I suppose if you catch the light right, there might
be a bit of a faint hint of green …”

“
Here, here, let me see...” Egnatius had hobbled up, blatantly
shoving Quary aside with his walking stick, and drew in a breath to
enlarge himself so he was able to see through the peephole. He took
a puff on his pipe, the smoke curling from his mouth as he asked,
“What’s yer full name, young sir?”

Quary, not one
to be pushed aside blew himself up too, nudging past Bram and
crowding Egnatius at the peep hole to scowl at Jack. “Answer,
goblin! What’s yer name?! All of it!” His rooster lost interest in
scratching for bugs to waddle up and see what his Captain was
blustering about this time.

Egnatius cuffed Quary around the head, inciting a yelp from
him. “Don’t go riling him up, you
dunderhead
. He’s a goblin and he’ll blow you to
pieces if he has a mind to!”

“
He can’t touch me behind here,” Quary grouched, rubbing his
smarting head.

Jack smiled
sweetly. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

Quary’s one
good eye flared and Bram heard his sharp gasp of surprise. The
spriggan hastily retreated, shrinking back down to size. “I meant
no disrespect, young sir,” he called out in a wan voice.

Sandee shook her head at him and said mockingly,
“
Ah
Captain, so full of
foolhardy boldness.” Quary’s blunt features scowled a little at
that, but he didn’t protest, choosing to hide behind his rooster,
who crowed in delight and went straight in for a peck. Quary
squawked and beat his hat at the rooster, leaping behind his
brother, who shared a mirthful look with Sandee.

Jack bowed
gracefully low. “Jack Bedden-Trogg.”

Egnatius
stroked his chin thoughtfully and whispered to Bram, “That name, it
sounds familiar, but it’s been a long time, and I was so young when
I was separated from the Wilds and the names me Ma and Da bade me
to remember.” He turned back to Jack who was waiting patiently, and
called out, “Yer name sounds familiar, lad, you related to anyone
of note?”

Jack shook his
head, his wild white hair ruffling a little with the movement. He
flashed a dazzling smile. “I can assure you, I am no king or queen,
nor likely ever to be.”

Spix tugged at
Bram’s shirt. “Goblins aint to be trusted,” he warned. “That be one
of the high laws of spriggans me Ma and Da first taught me.”

Quary’s
battered hat poked above Roq’s shoulder as he chipped in, “That,
and never accept anything from a pixie smoking a pipe.” And he gave
a little shudder at a personal recollection of his.

Bram
considered Jack. He certainly didn’t trust him; Egnatius and the
others were warning him not to as well. But Jack may be the only
person who knew what happened to Nettle in Olde Town, and he might
be the only one able to help. “Let him in,” Bram ordered Burban.
“We haven’t been able to rouse her, he might be able to.”

Burban said
gruffly, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Goblins are slippery
characters, and like your little friend said, not to be trusted.”
Nevertheless, he parted a small entrance for the goblin.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Scorch-Marks on the Walls

Jack had to
duck a little as he strode through the hole the copse had made for
him. The spriggans kept a wary eye as he approached. Egnatius stood
by Bram, flanked by Spix who’d already loaded his sling with a
stone swinging it in a lazy arc. Quary was torn between guarding
his precious Nutella and Bram. Bram just won out, just, but to
hedge his bets he stayed close to the bulging suitcase.

Sandee blocked
Jack from getting any closer to Bram, who had taken a few tiny
steps backward. She levelled her sword at him. “Here, watch yerself
goblin. Try any funny business and I’ll poke a hole in you.” Roq
was right behind her hefting his axe, sporting a reckless grin of
broken teeth, daring the goblin to just try it.

Though Jack wasn’t the least bit concerned by the
spriggans, he was intensely curious at their presence. He
readjusted his scarf and addressed Bram, casting his gaze leisurely
about the property. “I had no idea when I met your sister she’d be
this peculiar. A house in the Wilds, a copse, spriggans... Just
who
are
you?”

Bram gestured
urgently to where Nettle sat on the porch steps. “Please, my
sister. I found her like this, maybe half an hour ago. Can you help
her?”

Sandee allowed
Jack to pass, but she and Roq kept close as he approached Nettle in
long lazy strides. He knelt on the rickety step in front of her,
slightly pushing up the sleeves of his jacket. The spriggans
gathered behind him, even Quary’s rooster was watching the
proceedings. Bram squatted down beside the goblin, hope swelling in
his chest.

Nettle didn’t
respond to Jack’s presence, she continued to gaze through him. His
smooth brow creased, and he lightly grimaced as he ran a hand
through his silvery-blond hair. “I’m not sure I can. She’s had a
rather nasty shock.”

Bram whipped his head around to meet Jack’s apologetic
expression. “What kind of shock?” Jazz was his first thought, his
stomach lurching…
is she dead?

Jack didn’t
answer. Instead, he turned back to Nettle and slowly waved a hand
in front of her face and waited for any kind of acknowledgment from
her. He received none. He leaned back on his heels casting a
contemplative glance at her. “There is one thing I can try.”

“
Anything…” Bram whispered.

Jack drew his
hand back, pinched the thumb and forefinger together, and a wicked
grin sprung to his lips. “It’s a little primitive, but potentially
effective.” He winked at Bram. With a snap of his fingers, he
sharply flicked the tip of her nose.

It was like
watching a crumpled marionette doll being tugged by its strings
come to life. Nettle leapt to her feet, animated and excitable and
yelled, “THE SISTERS’ ARE WITCHES!!!”

Bram’s heart near-exploded with elation.
She’s OK!
He flung himself at
his sister, wrapping his arms around her waist.
Thank goodness she’s OK!
He beamed up at
her, a crooked questioning smile that faltered when he registered
what she’d actually said. “
Huh?
What are you talking about? Who are
witches?”

Nettle gazed
down at him. The colour of her eyes had shifted to a dark swampy
green - they were almost black. Her features were deeply carved
with guilt and sorrow and her mouth downcast. “Oh, Bram,” she
cried. She crumpled to her knees so she was at eye-level with
him.

Bram’s stomach
felt hollow. He let her take his hands to lace her fingers with
his. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“
They’re witches, Bram - the Balfreys.”

His eyebrows
drew together in consternation and he recoiled a little, giving a
short snort of disbelief. “What do you mean?” This was the last
thing he had expected her to say.

Her sad
expression didn’t waver, it intensified.

“
What?” He asked again, his body growing tense.

There was a
fierce tightness around her eyes and mouth, and she let loose a
heartbreaking sob, letting go of one hand to press it against her
mouth, her chin wobbling. “Th-They have Jazz… I’m so sorry Bram… I
couldn’t get to her. She’s in danger and I left her behind.” She
threw herself into him, rocking his balance, burying her face into
the crook of his neck. He felt her shuddering. “They have Jazz…” It
was a moment later before he realized she was crying. His big brave
older sister, who never cried. The tears fell unheeded, soaking the
collar of his shirt. “It’s wo-worse, much worse, Bram… They’ve
g-got D-Da-Dad too.”

Bram pulled
back. The air sucked out of him, and he felt like he was teetering
on the edge of a cliff. “Dad? What do you mean?”

“
Cl-Cl-Claudine…” She choked back a sob, her mouth a rubbery
mess of wretchedness. “Th-they’re g-go-going to s-s-sa-sacrifice
him...”

Behind him, Bram heard a collective murmuring from the
copse and spriggans. He watched her draw in a shuddering breath as
she rose to briskly pace the porch, her shoulders hunched forward.
“I saw something the night Dad left with the Woodstock Twins,” she
sniffled wiping her salty cheeks with a palm. “It
lo
-
looked like a rash on his wrist, b-but I’m sure it was the
number 13.” She shook her head. Her messy hair, a tangle of locks,
swept about her like a curtain. “Besides Dad, there’s at least
another twelve other sacrifices.”