Nieve (10 page)

The car pulled into the circular drive that fronted the house and stopped before the wide steps that led up to the front door. Above the door a single lamp shone dully, yet was bright enough for Nieve to see that it
was
a singular sort of car. Long and sleek, a soft silvery colour, it reminded her more of an animal than a machine. The driver jumped out and hurried around to open the back door for a solitary passenger. A woman emerged, dressed in a long black gown, a lacy shawl, and a large hat covered in a swirl of black feathers. The hat's thick smokey veil concealed her face. It might have been this, or something else about the woman, as magisterially tall as the chauffeur was short,
goblin-short
, that made Nieve change her mind about going up to the front door herself right away and asking for her parents.

As soon as the woman reached the top step the door swung open and she swept in, wisps of her shawl fluttering and snapping around her. The driver then moved the car ahead, parking it some distance from a cluster of others in a graveled area off to the left.

Nieve moved ahead soundlessly, stepping off the drive and onto the lawn, keeping to the right and well away from the silver car, which, while no longer running, still seemed to be muttering to itself (
boring, boring
). She stole around the side of the house, hoping that there weren't any security lights or alarms to set off. Or guard dogs!

So far so good. Somewhere deep in the woods behind the house a fox barked, but no other sound other than chirring crickets disturbed the night as she crept along.

All of the windows were dark with the exception of a large, central one, and even that was illuminated with the meanest of lights, as if nothing were happening here at all. According to Gran, wakes in the Old Country were lively affairs, with lots of talking and singing and drinking. But this wasn't the Old Country, and Nieve suspected that everyone was sitting around the coffin – would there be a coffin? – hushed and respectful, while her parents cried their eyes out. They must be doing a terrific job, she thought, and was glad she hadn't interrupted them. Best to wait until the soppy stuff was over.

Since the window was too far overhead for Nieve to reach, she scouted around for something to stand on. After checking out a fallen birdbath and a broken chair – a surprising amount of litter was scattered around – she settled on a small wooden crate, first testing it for sturdiness. Overturning it beneath the window – it was a bit wobbly – she climbed up and grabbed the sill, stretching herself to her full height. Standing on tiptoe, Nieve peered into a huge gloomy drawing-room, the only light source being a couple of fat candles flickering in tall ebony stands beside the . . . the . . . there
was
a coffin! But to her horror, she saw that it contained not one body, but . . . six or seven, it was hard to tell how many. They were carelessly heaped one on top of the other, this way and that, like a haul of fish in a basket. The topmost body she even recognized . . . Theo Bax!

Several people were casually milling around, drinks in hand, chatting and laughing, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about partying near a pile of corpses. Dunstan Warlock, grubby fingers clasping a sweaty glass and cowboy hat pushed back on his head, was sniggering at something he must have said to a young woman who was standing beside him. Even in the dimly lit room, with juddering shadows cast on the walls from the flickering candles, Nieve recognized her as the woman she'd seen going into the pharmacy. So she
was
here . . . and
there
was Sophie, not working at all, but standing near a cold marble fireplace talking with a man who was dressed in a white tuxedo with black fur trim on the cuffs and lapels. Mortimer Twisden. Nieve recognized him from newspaper photos. He sort of resembled a ferret, she realized now, with his pointy face and small eyes. He and her mother appeared to be deep in conversation, while her father . . . where was he? She cast around and finally located him seated off to one side of the coffin, almost lost in its shadow. He
looked
lost, dry-eyed and stunned.

Nieve felt stunned herself, horrified by what she was seeing. She had no idea what it all meant, or how she was going to get her parents out of there. She was still staring at her father, when the tall, veiled woman stepped out of a darkened entranceway. As she glided regally toward the centre of the room, all talking, all laughing, all motion stopped; even the shadows froze on the walls. The woman inclined her head minimally, this way and that, acknowledging those assembled. Most bowed or smiled nervously back, except for Dunstan Warlock, who beamed goofily at her as if they were the best of friends. She turned toward the coffin briefly and gave a faint nod. Then she turned toward the window. She stood very still, lifting her chin slightly, and Nieve caught a silvery flash beneath the veil.

Quickly, she ducked below the sill. Which is when something –
something
with sharp teeth – seized her by the leg and yanked her off the crate.

–Eleven–
Skin & Bone

N
ieve tumbled backward and landed hard on the ground. Before she had a chance to jump to her feet, to kick or strike out at her attacker, she heard a subdued whimper and felt something chamois-soft and wet land on her chin. A dark shape was leaning over her, some sort of beast silhouetted against the weak light from the window, and it was
licking her
face
. She couldn't see clearly what it was, but she could smell its breath – an unmistakable and not entirely fabulous smell.

“Artichoke?” she whispered.

Maybe not. It might be a guard dog after all, although not a particularly effective one.

But then, the dog gave a clipped bark, an identifying and anxious
yip
, that told Nieve it was indeed Artichoke. And now he was dancing around her urgently, tugging at her sweater, nudging and pulling at her. There was no time for hugs and a happy reunion. She could hear voices, low and chill, coming around the side of the house – one voice in particular, ice-cold and imperious, slid like a knife into her heart. Which didn't stop it from beating faster, faster.

“I want her.”

Nieve didn't need to hear more. She leapt up, and with Artichoke streaking ahead, fled toward the back of the house. Here she encountered even more jumble, an obstacle course of objects that had evidently been chucked out the back door. The light that dribbled through a muzzy porch window fell on an upended deep-freeze, an electric fan, and an old cabinet Hi-Fi, a jagged crack streaking through its walnut veneer. She had no time to wonder at the weirdness of this, but ducked down behind the deep-freeze before her pursuers could spot her. As they approached, she heard a low laugh, followed by an amused command.

“Go fetch Gowl. He's my most efficient rat-catcher.”

Someone grunted in response and shortly the back door opened and slammed shut.

Nieve wasn't tempted to peek around the side of the deep-freeze to see who remained, awaiting the arrival of the “rat-catcher.” She knew well enough who it was, if not why the woman was after her. She felt Artichoke nudge her. Hunkered down, he'd crept up from behind, and now gave her sleeve a quick tug with his teeth, trying to pull her deeper into the concealing dark. Nieve pivoted slowly on her heel, and, still crouched, followed as quietly as she could.

“The night will deliver you into my hands,” the woman called out, her voice seeming to come from all directions at once. “There is no escape
, none whatsoever.
Everywhere you turn, I'll be there.”

While she was broadcasting her sinister threat and clearly relishing every word of it, Nieve and Artichoke snuck into the overgrown garden that stretched out behind the house.
Keep
on talking,
Nieve thought
, and we will escape
. She was determined to put up a good fight no matter what, although her hand trembled as she reached out for Artichoke, her guide dog in this blind flight. In the depths of the yard, beyond the scant smattering of light from the porch, visibility was nil. She had a vague idea of where things were, having snuck into the grounds once with Malcolm before the house had been sold. She recalled the stilled fountain, the ancient gingko trees and twisted rhododendron bushes, the high hedges and tangled flowerbeds, the abandoned apiary boxes piled in a back corner by the crumbling stone wall . . . but she didn't know what else she might encounter. A minefield of junk to trip her up? Or weeds with grasping, long-fingered leaves and hydra-headed flowers with sharp, snapping jaws?

Artichoke's fur felt dull and powdered with grit. In trying to get a secure handhold on his coat – his collar hung loose as a necklace – she realized how skinny he'd grown while running wild, searching for Dr. Morys. Yet, even in this absolute dark, he seemed to know exactly where he was going. He led her deftly through the garden without once faltering, the ground spongy underfoot, the smell of decayed leaves rising up as they dodged through.

Then abruptly Artichoke came to a standstill, the hackles on the back of his neck rising.

Nieve heard the woman say something, but not in English, not in any language Nieve had ever heard before. A harsh, guttural tongue. The only word she recognized was “Gowl.”

No sooner had she spoken its name than the creature was hurtling through the darkness making a clattering noise like bones hitting rock. All Nieve could see of it were its luminous, ghost-white eyes getting closer and closer. Not blind, it charged straight at them.

“Go! Don't stop,” she implored Artichoke. “The wall, we can–”

Artichoke wasn't having it. With a low, rumbling growl, he turned toward Gowl and lunged forward, slipping out of her grasp. A vicious snarling erupted, followed by a savage, ravening noise as the two met head on.

Terrified, Nieve began to scrabble around in the dark searching for a weapon to club the beast with – her flashlight was gone, lost when Artichoke had pulled her off the crate. Her hands flew through the dark in search of a rock, a fallen branch,
anything
, before Gowl ripped Artichoke apart. In her desperate scrambling search, she knocked over a pile of wooden boxes, sending them cascading to the ground. She lunged at one of these, running her hands over the rough surface to quickly assess its size, then grabbed it in both hands. It was one of the apiary boxes, a bee box, empty, but heavy enough to do some damage. She ran at Gowl with it, taking aim at his cold, blank eyes.

But something happened that caught her off-guard, and she hesitated. The box had begun to glow. Tiny beads of light appeared within and were swirling around and around, expanding rapidly, soon filling the box entirely with light. It glowed like a lamp in her hands, casting a revealing light on Gowl. He flinched and recoiled from the sudden brightness, and Nieve flinched, too, crying out, shocked at the sight of him.

She hadn't known what to expect – an ugly and vicious dog bred to kill rodents? – but she would never have expected
this.
Gowl was a living nightmare, a creature with a human head on mastiff's body. His hideous face was squashed and broken, his dog's body raw and burnt. The flesh on his legs and feet was completely gone, bare bone only remained.

Nieve stared at him in horror as he advanced toward her, snarling and baring wolf's teeth.

Artichoke leapt up and knocked the bee box from her hands. As it crashed to the ground, the light inside spilled out – or rather, what spilled out was a shifting, incandescent cloud, buzzing and crackling. What had emerged appeared to be a mass of swarming, angry insects, but ones that were as fiery as sparks, flaming, white-hot sparks that surrounded Gowl and began settling on him like a searing, radiant cloak. He let out an unearthly, heart-rending moan, then turned and tore back toward the house, shrieking, filling the night with a wail of torment that was half-human, half-animal.

His mistress, livid at being so unexpectedly balked, shrieked even louder. Words, however unrecognizable, that needed no translation.

Nieve and Artichoke didn't waste a moment. They clambered swiftly over the rubble tumbled from the garden's broken wall, and, squeezing through a gap in it, disappeared into the blackness of the forest behind.

–Twelve–
Lias

I
t was hard to say who was more surprised when they stumbled through the door of Gran's cottage. Everyone spoke at once.

“Nievy!” Gran jumped up, knocking over her chair. “Artichoke, too? Bless me!” She'd been sitting by the hearth, jabbing at a smouldering log with a poker. As she rose the poker slipped from her hand and fell to the floor with a ringing clatter.