Shadow Spell (4 page)

Jibbit watched the red dawn burn itself out and wondered dismally what to do next. He was huddled in the crook between two chimney pots, struggling to face the fact that the Evebell had gone unrung for the first time since Strood had taken over the House, nearly a hundred years ago. It had not been the ex-bellringer's fault – after all, what hope did a small stone have against a large Fabulous? – but Mr Strood was not the sort to accept excuses and Jibbit knew that he was doomed. He would be ground to dust or reduced to molten lava. Or even (he shuddered) subjected to one of Mr Strood's horrible experiments. Jibbit was the result of an experiment
in the first place when Strood had brought him to life with the leftover magic in a sorcerer's wand, and then infected him with a trace of Quick to give him thought, but that didn't mean that he couldn't become part of another one. Arafin Strood was not above recycling.

The gargoyle moaned quietly and wrung his threetoed, stony paws. The useless wings on his back hunched pathetically against the early-morning wind that blew in from the sea. He had had a nice life up on the roof of the House, tucked out of the way of the more horrible aspects of working for Mr Strood, but now it was all over.

A sound echoed over the roof. It came from the back of the House, far away from the bell tower and down a roof or two from where Jibbit was crouching. The Sunatorium. He listened for a moment, then crept slowly closer.

Mr Strood's Sunatorium was a woodland walk at the back of the Terrible House. It was encased in living crystal that grew out from the House walls to join with the cliff and surround the wood, leaving the occasional hole for extra long branches to poke through. The sounds Jibbit could hear were coming from one of those holes.

Jibbit perched on the very edge of the roof and peered through the crystal top of the Sunatorium. He didn't dare step on to it for fear of falling through, or (if the crystal didn't break beneath him) of sliding off it to his
doom on the rocks at the foot of the cliff.

Below him were Mr Strood, Secretary Scribbins, a tiger and a ragged-looking man. Both the tiger and the man were in cages. The Mortal Distillation Machine was there too, dragged in from the ruined laboratory along with the cages. A whole range of bottles and strangelooking implements had been laid out on a trestle to the left of the machine. There was also an armchair, set facing the machine, with a small side table on which stood a steaming cup of coffee and an uneaten slice of toast.

‘What do you mean, he hasn't come back?'

Mr Strood had had a bath and had changed his rags for one of his usual black silk suits. Fortunately, along with his jaw, his right arm and his leg had finally grown back. The missing eye had managed to heal too, but had done so around a small lump of quartz that must have got lodged in the socket during all the crawling through the earth. It gave the eye a splintered gleam that reflected the early-morning sun. Altogether it was not a pretty sight.

‘J-just th-that, Mr Strood sir. B-bogeyman B-Bale hasn't come back,' mumbled Scribbins.

There was only one conclusion to be drawn from this and Strood drew it. He let out a slow hiss.

‘She got away
again
,' he said in a voice so full of sharp edges it made the watching Jibbit feel sick with fright.

Scribbins held his breath. Mr Strood was normally a controlled sort of person, even when he was in a temper,
but it was becoming very clear after the incident in the laboratory that Ninevah Redstone was the one thing that could make him go absolutely no-holds-barred nova. Strood switched his gaze to the tiger and the Quick and his eyes brightened. Scribbins let out his breath slowly and his heart started beating again, though in a disturbingly fluttery way.

‘I thought she might,' Strood said, ‘that's why I have a backup plan. Always have a backup plan, Scribbins.' He laughed. It was almost friendly.

‘Y-y-yes sir.' Scribbins bobbed nervously a couple of times.

‘Truth is, I rather look forward to the challenge. Since I dealt with Gan Mafig, my old master, and took over his House, things have been a little quiet around here. Now I have a real test of power. Time to show the Drift just what I can do, eh?'

Scribbins had begun to shake so badly he could hardly hold his notebook. It was experiment time, he just knew it.

‘Put the man into the distillation machine,' said Strood, ‘and move the tiger's cage closer.'

‘B-b-but …'

Strood rolled his eyes. ‘All right, get one of the guards to do it. Really Scribbins, pull yourself together or I'll send you down to the Engine and get Mrs Dunvice to take notes instead.'

The watching Jibbit shuddered. He had heard about the Engine, where men, women and children ran all day
in the great wheels that spun electricity to power the Terrible House. Stories about Hathor, the giant-Grimm guard who kept them all running until they fell to the ground and died, were often repeated among Strood's servants.

Below him, Guard Floyd appeared and shoved the tiger's cage into position. Then he grappled the screaming man into the Mortal Distillation Machine and shut the door on him. Strood got busy with the needles and tubes, linking the human and the tiger, so that the distilled essence of the first would flow directly into the second.

‘Now, I expect you to take detailed notes, Scribbins. This is only part one of my plan. The end result will be a first, you understand. Nothing like this will have been seen before. By the time I have finished, I will have made legend.'

Scribbins wiped a clammy hand on his jacket and tried to get a grip on his pencil. With a flourish, Strood released a clamp, allowing a cloudy pink potion to flow down the tube and drip into the man's veins. The potion was a key part of the distillation process and drove the victim insane, locking him into his worst nightmare, magnified a thousand times. His spirit would be completely crushed by the sheer weight of terror and its squeezed-out essence could then be either collected into a beaker for Mr Strood to use later, or fed straight into the body of victim number two: in this case, the tiger.

Jibbit couldn't tear himself away. He crouched there,
shivering, while the horrible experiment went on. He had never personally experienced distillation, but he had heard the screams echoing up the chimney pots, even when he was up on his perch at the bell tower. Now, watching the poor man reduced by degrees to a leftover husk, he saw the real horror of it.

The tiger's fate was little better. When Mr Strood had made Jibbit he had used only a small drop of distilled human to infect the gargoyle, just enough to give him some intelligence. But the tiger was getting an entire body's worth. Judging by all the roaring, it wasn't a nice experience.

Strood hummed contentedly as he watched the agonising transformation take place, the pure essence of human forcing its way in to mingle with that of the tiger.

In the corner of the room, Scribbins was trying hard not to throw up. Especially since he might be sick over his notes, which were going to be hard enough to read as it was, what with all the trembling.

Suddenly the room fell silent. Strood stopped humming. In the Distillation Machine a wispy husk hung from the restraints like crumpled-up tissue paper. In the cage, the transformation was complete.

Something uncurled from the floor. It was gold and black and its amber eyes glowed with savagery. Six-inch-long claws scraped on the tiles as it pushed itself up to rise gracefully to its full height. It couldn't speak much, its mouth was too full of teeth, but it made a low
purring sound.

‘Perfect,' said Strood quietly.

Scribbins sighed with relief.

‘Now, clean out that mess in the Distillation Machine and put the tiger-man in there. It's time for phase two. And while
he's
distilling, fetch me some crowsmorte and a bucket of blood.' Strood smiled. ‘On second thoughts, make that a barrel.'

Hello, Ninevah Redstone.'

Nin had been dreaming about being on a mountain in the dark, with the wind howling around her. Now she gasped as fiery light bathed her. She could feel something too, a tingle in the air that meant dawn was happening. She opened her eyes, though she knew that she wasn't really opening her eyes. In reality she was still asleep, but in her mind she was just … seeing what was there.

She was in a bed and a woman was sitting beside her. The woman's shape was clear, and so bright it must have been made of the dawn fire. She was slender and her close-cropped hair was silver-white. Her long robe was of the same ruby colour as the sunrise.

The woman smiled. It was such a gentle smile that a little warmth began to creep back into Nin's icy limbs.

‘Hello, Ninevah,' she said again and her voice could have broken hearts.

The woman was only an image made of light, an echo of something that had once been real, but Nin understood
completely that a vision so vivid and clear could only be the remains of one of the Seven Sorcerers.

‘You have to be Enid Lockheart!' Nin stirred, trying to sit up, but her limbs felt like lead so she lay quietly, her eyes fixed on the woman's face. She knew she was right, this was the once-sorceress who had created the Sanctuary.

‘Indeed I am.' Enid smiled. ‘Now, we have little time, Ninevah, for it is only in the moment between oblivion and consciousness that I can be seen, and you are waking up. I will hang on to the moment for as long as I can. There are things I have to tell you and you must listen carefully.'

The sound of the wind seemed distant now, a gentle murmur. Nodding, Nin sighed inwardly. She had a feeling she knew what this visit was all about.

She had been longing to go home and had done everything she needed to do to achieve that, but in her heart she knew it wasn't over yet. While rescuing Toby and finding both of their memory pearls – the spell that would restore the memory of their existence to the world of the Widdern – she had made an enemy of Arafin Strood. And if last night's attack by bogeyman was anything to go by, he was not about to let her walk off happily into the sunrise.

‘Tell me,' went on Enid, ‘when you met Nemus Sturdy, did he explain about the Seven Sorcerers? About how we tried to cheat the plague by becoming something else? Good, then you'll know about how I poured
all my magic into a spell to make a place of safety, where Quick may come to be healed and find comfort.'

‘Yes, you made the Sanctuary.' Nin paused as a chill ran though her. ‘I just realised what I did!' she gasped. ‘I led the bogeyman straight to you! He'll tell Strood where you are and then …'

Enid laughed and for just a moment Nin caught a glimpse of steel in her eyes. ‘No Dread Fabulous will ever cross my threshold.'

She leaned forward and Nin felt golden eyes on her face and smelled wild flowers.

‘You have to understand the nature of spells,' Enid went on. ‘Listen to me, Ninevah, because this is important. Spells are not just words that you say and that have an end result and then they are over. They are much more than that. Think of them as a living thing, a creation of the sorcerer who casts them. They evolve and sometimes you could almost believe they are intelligent. Sometimes, with a powerful spell, even their creator doesn't know how it will achieve what he has set it to do. Look at Simeon.'

‘Simeon Dark? The last sorcerer. The only one of you who might still be alive and still a sorcerer?'

‘Simeon cast a spell that hid him so completely, it is as if he has vanished from the Land. And even those closest to him do not know what the spell did to achieve that.' Enid smiled warmly. ‘It's possible that even Simeon Dark doesn't know what happened to Simeon Dark!'

Nin frowned, trying to understand. ‘So, like, the
sorcerer sets his spell a … a task and starts it off. And it will do what it's told, but how it does it is up to the spell?'

‘Right. That is why the bogeyman who came after you was no threat to me. I cast a spell to make a safe refuge for the Quick, and that spell is still alive, fed by the desire of millions of Quick.'

‘Safe,' said Nin, thoughtfully. ‘So when the Sanctuary was found by the BM, someone who threatened its safety …'

‘My Sanctuary moved. Every last patient, sister, bottle and bandage.' Enid laughed with delight and Nin joined in, feeling suddenly happy. ‘It moved because if it hadn't, it wouldn't be safe any more and it has to be safe because that's what I made it to be.'

‘Neat! So Strood will never find you?'

‘No, but there is one way that Strood can kill the spell and so kill me. He's trying it right now. You'll see what I mean when you wake.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Don't be. It's not your fault that he is what he is. If it's down to anybody, then it's down to us, the Seven, for what we did to him.' Enid smiled her warm smile again. ‘He's left us alone for many years, no doubt taking pride in the knowledge that he is the most powerful person in the Drift, while we are shadows of the sorcerers we used to be. But now he has decided to have his revenge, both on us and on you. He's killing us all and there will be consequences.'

Now, Enid's eyes were full of ice and Nin shivered. The sound of the wind seemed closer again.

‘What should I do?'

‘I think that fate …' Enid hesitated, ‘or something, anyway, has chosen you to stop Strood. And I think the Seven, the Land and all who live on it will stand or fall along with you. You have to survive, and to do that you'll need help, the most powerful help you can get.'

‘Simeon Dark,' said Nin, understanding at once. ‘I have to find the last living sorcerer. Because he's the only one who might be able to help us stop Strood.'

‘Right,' Enid laughed, ‘but it's not going to be easy.' She leaned close, her smooth brow crumpled with thought. ‘There are many stories about Dark and what happened to him. I'm sure you'll come across them in your travels. But we were his friends and knew him best and I can tell you that he always loved disguises.' She laughed softly, remembering good times. ‘Sometimes he'd turn up to his own parties looking like a complete stranger – a different kind of Fabulous, a Grimm perhaps, or even a Quick.'