Nieve (13 page)

“Who with?” Not her dad, she didn't think. Nieve bit her lip, wondering where her parents were right now, wondering what had happened to them at the wake after she'd fled.

“Frances Murray.”

“Malcolm's mum? But they're . . . are they back? You've seen her?”

“At the hospital. I hate to tell you this Nieve, but Malcolm's very ill. They don't know what it is, he's delirious half the time, he's . . . not well at all.” Gran gave her an apologetic look. “Frances has been with him constantly, but she's had to make a few quick trips home and she's back tonight. She said she'd wait until half past the hour for you.”

With that, they all looked up at the mantel clock. It was banging away as though soldering minutes and tossing them out willy-nilly, rather than simply recording them. Twenty-five past twelve.

“Tsk,” said Gran, seeing how late it was. “I've kept you too long.”

“That's not even the real time,” Nieve objected.

“It is now,” Gran said. “It's
their
time, and it'll only take us deeper into a night without end.”

“Let's go, then.” If Nieve managed nothing else, nothing in this crazy exploit, she was determined to see Malcolm and do whatever she could to help him. “Are you ready?” she asked Lias.

“I am,” he answered, already fastening his cloak.

–Fifteen–
Luck

A
fter a few hastily applied pats to Artichoke's dreaming head, and two equally hasty hugs for each of them from Gran, they were out and running toward town. Despite their hurry, Nieve ran a tad slower than she might have because she couldn't help but look at everything in passing. Whatever caught her eye became illuminated with a pale, ghostly light: the path beneath her feet, the grasses alongside, a rabbit tearing away at the sound of their approach (and no wonder, with Lias thudding along behind in his new shoes). She found it eerie and fascinating. A boulder loomed out of the dark like the frosty white tip of an iceberg. An old, wizened crabapple tree that she'd passed a thousand times before was transformed into another kind of tree altogether, its fruit dark, glistening jewels.

But there were things, too, that she would rather not have seen. Things that made her pick up the pace. Cobwebs had appeared everywhere, covering bushes like giant hairnets, most weighted with drooping egg-sacs. In one chokecherry bush an orb-weaver as big as her hand was delicately enfolding some unfortunate struggling creature in a silky tomb. Gazing up, she saw a swirling mass of bats, their shadowy forms boiling above her head. Glancing aside, she spotted a wisp of trailing, diaphanous material that snatched itself quickly away. What was
that?

“Faster!”she called out to Lias, and then heard him go down. A scuffling sound was followed by a
thump
and a muffled curse.

When she ran back to see if he was all right, he was already clambering to his feet and brushing himself off. His face might have been red – hers would have been – but, moon-washed, it was hard to tell.

“Something tripped me.”

“Yeah, your shoelaces.”

Nieve wondered if his snazzy runners were such a good idea if they were only going to slow them down like this. (And they looked ludicrous with the rest of his medieval getup.) The laces on one shoe were undone, overlong and trailing. “Want me to–?”

“I can fasten latchets,” he said testily. “I'm not a
bawheid
.”

“You better do it then. We've got about a minute left to get there.”

“Got to walk nine paces with them unfastened first.”

“What?”

“Bad luck otherwise.”

“Good grief,” Nieve muttered, turning away. Just
her
luck to get stuck with someone as superstitious as Gran. No surprise, really, given the amulet and all the rest. If “bawheid” meant some sort of dunderhead, he was right about that.

But then, if they were late, and if they missed catching a ride with Malcolm's mum, that might not be so terrible. She could go home, have a snack, dive into bed . . . no, no she couldn't. What would Gran say if she chickened out? What would she say to herself? No, if Frances had already left, she'd find some other way to get to the city, with or without her clumsy companion.

She started to run again, but not at a wicked speed, giving him time to perform his ritual and catch up. It
was
going to be a long night if they had to do this every time his shoelaces came undone, or a black cat crossed his path, or any of a million other “unlucky” things happened.

“Magical thinking,” Sophie would say dismissively whenever Gran tossed salt over her shoulder or knocked on wood to dispel bad luck. Nieve liked the sound of that, though, because there was something magical about thinking, how you could make interesting things happen in your head even if they weren't happening in your life.

When she arrived at the edge of town, with only a few blocks to go before reaching Duck Street and Malcolm's house, she paused again, listening for Lias. No sound at all this time. He wasn't lost, surely? He'd been shadowing her for days, so she figured he had to know his way around. It struck her that the haunting voice she'd heard while walking to Ferrets, the voice that had dogged her, whispering her name, might have been his. Maybe he was one of
them,
and Gran's trust in him was dangerously misplaced. But whatever had followed her had been invisible and she doubted he was up to that, given the difficulty he had in simply staying upright in a pair of shoes. He'd need a brainstorm of magical thinking to pull that one off.

Nieve tugged her sweater closer to her. The air was cool and the night streaked with drifting patches of fog. She had passed one particularly dense patch that had gathered in front of Warlock's Books, not giving it a second thought until she turned around to look for Lias and was surprised to see it trailing behind her. It was moving swiftly, like a ragged sheet caught in a wind, and moving with intention.

Hastily, she scurried away from it, but before she could pour on more speed, it hit her with a wave of clammy cold. Suddenly she was immersed. On all sides nothing but a chill fog – the street had vanished. She struggled to fight her way out of it, flailing her arms and kicking at it, but it made no difference. It was like fighting the air itself. But it was more than that. She watched astonished, as it thickened, gaining in density and weight as it swirled around her legs, her arms. She felt it wrap itself heavily around her shoulders and neck. A frigid, smothering breath pressed against her face. She opened her mouth to shout for help and the cold slid in, freezing her tongue, numbing her throat. Terror passed like a dead hand through her. And then she heard it, again, that insinuating voice sinking like needles into her head,
Nieve, oh Nieve . . .

Then, faintly, as if from miles away, she heard another voice, someone reciting two unintelligible words over and over. Over and over, like an insistent, pesky insect whine.
Mizzle
was what it sounded like,
mizzle rouk
. . . The longer this went on, the louder the voice grew and the more familiar it became. The clinging, heart-chilling vapour weakened its hold. It gradually began to melt and loosen and come apart, until finally it broke up entirely and began to dissipate, drifting away in shreds.

Lias was circling her, no longer speaking, but waving his hands vigorously, chasing away the last of it.

“What
was
that?” she gasped, shivering.

“I wouldn't care to name it.”

Nieve stamped her feet and tried to rub some warmth into her arms. She even had to warm her words with her breath before they sounded right. “Good thing you were held up.”

He smiled. “Lucky.”

“More than that I think.” She hated to concede the point. “But, Lias . . . thanks.” Not such a bawheid after all.

He nodded. “Better go.”

“Yeah, we're late!”

Running flat out for the rest of the way helped Nieve warm up. A nagging, leftover feeling of dread and helplessness melted away as well. What had that thing been, after all, she asked herself, but mist? Fog. It was what the weather forecasters called “an isolated atmospheric incident.” So nothing but weather.
Bad
weather, though.

Tearing up Duck Street, Nieve heard Frances Murray's car idling in her driveway. She'd waited for them! It was an old car that rattled like crazy, sounding like it might fall apart at any moment. Once when Nieve had wondered out loud about this, Frances had explained that thanks to the excellent binding properties of hockey tape and chewing gum, her car was as reliable as any on the road. Sometimes it was hard to tell when Frances was joking.

As they approached, Frances waved and leaned over to unlock the door on the passenger side. Odd, Nieve thought. Frances wasn't the nervous type and never locked the car, especially not when she was
in
it. This was likely a precaution to keep the doors from falling off.

“You can ride in the front,” Nieve said to Lias. A generous offer, since she sometimes got carsick if she rode in the back. But considering the way Lias was gaping at the car – it wasn't
that
big a wreck – she thought he might suffer from a worse case of it.

She ran around to the other side, where Frances, leaning over the seat, unlocked the back door.

“What a relief!” Frances said, as Nieve climbed in. “I was starting to worry, big time. What's wrong with your friend?”

Lias was hovering outside the door, staring in.

Lots
, Nieve wanted to say, but instead, remembering his response to the shoes, said, “Don't know. Maybe he's never been in a car before.”

“Seriously?” said Frances. “What, you steal him from some Luddite cult?” She smiled encouragingly at Lias, while pointing at her wrist, which is where she'd be wearing her watch if she hadn't pawned it to buy skates for Malcolm.

“Yep,” Nieve laughed. Frances always cheered her up.

Mystified, Lias nonetheless nodded and opened the door, but gingerly, as if the handle were burning hot. He settled cautiously on the passenger seat, and sat stiffly, gripping his knees and giving the interior a wary once-over.

Nieve tried to imagine what it would be like to ride in a car for the very first time. For her, probably like riding in a spaceship. And the way Frances drove, the comparison wasn't far off.

“This is Lias,” she said, remembering her manners.

“Pleased to meet you, Lias. I like your cloak. Not too sure it goes with that blouse, though.”

Lias gave her a sick smile.

“Thanks for waiting, Frances,” Nieve added. “We got, um . . . held up.”

“I won't ask.” Frances was squinting into the rearview mirror, watching her. “But I will ask if you honestly want to go with me. I suppose your Gran knows what she's doing sending you two off in the dead of night to do who-knows-what in a city that's turned into Weirdsville.” The hazel eyes Nieve saw reflected in the mirror were full of concern. Those eyes, so often crinkled with amusement, were bloodshot now from too little sleep and too much anguish. Frances gripped the steering wheel, and said quietly, “Malcolm will be so happy to see you.”

“Me too! How . . . is he?”

She shook her head. “Worse.”

Nieve didn't know what to say. “No one told me.”

“Really? I thought your mother would have. I ran into her in the hospital about a week ago.”

“The
hospital?
What was she doing there?”

“Got me, Nieve. She seemed, I don't know, agitated, not herself. I hope nothing's wrong.”

There was plenty wrong, but all Nieve said was, “Hope not.”

“Anyway, we'd better jet.” Frances slammed the car into reverse and backed out of the driveway. “I hate leaving Malcolm, but he begged me to bring him that arrowhead you two found near your Gran's place.”

“Arrowhead?” said Lias. He'd been tentatively examining the dial on the radio, but now paused, giving Frances a sharp look.

“Uh-huh. I know it sounds loony, but Malcolm thinks it will help him. And if he
thinks
it will, then who knows. At this stage, I'm telling you, I'll try anything. Okay kids, enough flapping our jaws. Hang onto your hair, it's time for
blast off.
”