SonofaWitch! Page 13

  “Yes, madam.” The girl gestured for them to follow her. They walked down the dark corridor in silence. The only light came from the sporadic candles hanging from the wall sconces. Olyvar desperately wanted to talk to Sarah but talking to girls wasn’t a talent of his. In fact, if he had a talent in anything, it hadn’t shown its face yet.

  She led them down to a small room that was lit by a dying fire. The only furniture in the sparse room was a roughly hewn circular table and the mismatched chairs that accompanied it. The top of the table was marked with years of use; scorching pans, red wine stains, and countless knocks and dints that had scratched the wood.

  “I’m sorry that you’ve been relegated to the servant’s kitchens. Mrs. Stanley will be using the main one to drink her gin. She likes the bigger fire,” Sarah said, her eyebrow arching.

  “It’s okay. This is a nice room,” Olyvar said, then almost groaned aloud at the inane comment. “I’m Olyvar and this is Stewart. We’re going to Bakewell.”

  “I heard you tell Mrs. Stanley.”

  “Yes, well…” He scratched the back of his neck. His well of small talk, never very deep to start with—particularly around pretty girls—had already dried up. “We… er…”

  Sarah didn’t wait for him to finish. She turned to face Stewart. Olyvar felt both relief and jealousy. “I overheard what you said before, about needing Doberman’s tongue?”

  Trying to bring her attention back to him, Olyvar let out an uneasy laugh. Even to his ears, it felt forced. “He… er… he was just talking nonsense, Sarah. Ignore him.”

  “I was just talking nonsense,” Stewart agreed.

  “No, you weren’t!” She insisted, displaying a fiery streak that both surprised and intrigued Olyvar. “Anyway, I know how to get it. Are you witches?”

  The awe in her voice made Olyvar want to puff out his chest but Carruthers’s warning rang in his ears. “Witches? Are you mad?”

  “Do you want the tongue or not?”

  Olyvar sighed. “Yes.”

  “Is it to get you home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Somewhere far away from here.”

  “Is it in the future?” she asked, her eyes big and brown.

  He couldn’t look away from them. “Yeah. I think so.”

  “Smooth. Just like James Bond, that,” Stewart said, staring at Olyvar as if he’d gone mad.

  Olyvar blinked. Then he realised what Stewart was driving at. “I mean, we’re not witches. We’re not from the future,” he protested. He realised it was a lost cause and sighed. “Look, about this tongue…?”

  She gave a pleased smile. “It’s in my master’s room. He’s a witch too. Everybody knows about it even though we’re not supposed to.”

  Stewart peered at her. “Aye? And who’s your master.”

  “Mr. Wainwright, o’course.”

  The name felt familiar to Olyvar but he couldn’t think why. Before he could ask, Stewart spoke. “And does this Mr. Wainwright have other supplies?”

  “Witchy supplies?”

  “No, kitchen supplies,” Stewart answered with biting sarcasm. “We’re going to go on a picnic and what we need right now is a chunk of cheese and some bread.” When she looked confused he snapped, “Of course I mean witch supplies!”

  “Yes, he does. And there’s no need to snap at me.”

  Stewart pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience clearly wearing thin. “How do we get into his room?”

  “You’ll need to get the key from Mrs. Stanley.”

  “Fine, fine,” Stewart said, irritably. “She’ll still be in the kitchen, will she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Righto.” He turned to Olyvar. “Cauldwell, you stay here whilst I deal with Mrs. Stanley. We’re here because of your fuck up and I’m not risking you getting near her. Don’t move from that spot. Don’t touch anything. And definitely don’t try to help.”

  Chapter Four

  Olyvar followed them anyway.

  Olyvar knew Stewart too well to stay behind. Ball-buster would either leave him there, stranded and forgotten about, or he’d throw Olyvar to the wolves to save his own skin. Olyvar might not be the best student in class but he wasn’t entirely stupid. Besides, why was Sarah, who definitely wasn’t a witch, allowed to follow when he had to stay behind? It didn’t seem right.

  So, he let them have a thirty second head start and then crept after them.

  By the time he caught up, they were hovering outside the kitchen door. It was open a crack and Sarah was peering through, her pretty face illuminated by the dull glow coming from the kitchen candles. “Just like I said, it’s eight o’clock and she’s on the gin…”

  Stewart was peering over her shoulder. “Okay, stand back. I’m going to…” He stopped when he saw Olyvar walking up the corridor. “Oh, for God’s sake!” Olyvar opened his mouth to speak but Stewart held up a hand. “No, don’t answer. Just stand by the wall and don’t let me hear a peep from you.”

  Olyvar mimed zipping up his lips and went to stand in his allocated space. He’d much rather be an onlooker than left behind.

  Stewart had already turned away. “Here goes.”

  “What are you going to do? Will it hurt her?” Sarah asked, wide-eyed.

  “No, of course not!” he said, appalled at the idea. “I’m just going to make her think she has pressing business elsewhere. And I’m going to make her forget her keys when she rushes off to do it. Easy peasy.”

  “Have you done it before?”

  “N—it doesn’t matter. I can do it now.” He didn’t wait for her to answer. He waved his hand in an elegant manner, weaving impressive gestures in the air. Beneath his breath, he murmured an incantation. Instead of being awed, as Olyvar expected her to be, her eyes narrowed, as if she was scrutinising his movements. Committing them to memory maybe. It was unsettling.

  From inside the kitchen came the sound of a hollow thud followed by a snore so loud that it was in the same decibel range as a chainsaw.

  “I don’t think she’s going to be leaving anytime soon,” Sarah noted drily.

  “I… er… changed my mind last minute. I thought it would be easier this way. I thought…” He cleared his throat. “Come on. Let’s get those keys.” He pulled the door open and strode into the kitchen, leaving Olyvar and Sarah exchanging loaded glances behind his back.

  Thanks to the roaring fire over by the oven, the kitchen was blazing hot when they entered and sweat immediately broke out between Olyvar’s shoulder blades. Mrs. Stanley was slumped over the table, her pudgy hand still clamped around the glass gin bottle. Other than a slight flush to her cheeks and the impressive snores, she didn’t look worse for the wear after Stewart’s magick.

  “Okay, can anyone see the keys?” Stewart came to a dead stop, swallowing audibly. It took Olyvar a moment to figure out why; the keys they desperately needed were hanging around Mrs. Stanley’s neck, pressing between the table and her considerable bosom.

  Stumped, Stewart turned around, his mouth gaping like a dying fish.

  His cluelessness and obvious embarrassment injected Olyvar with confidence. He walked towards Mrs. Stanley, rolling up his sleeves as he did so.

  Alarmed, Stewart put a hand on his arm. “What are you doing? You can’t touch her.”

  “I’ve got this,” Olyvar said, feeling like a movie star.

  He closed his eyes and, recalling the incantation he needed, started to mouth the words. Away from Carruthers’ judging eyes, he found the spell came easily. It was perhaps the only lesson in his short career of witchhood that he definitely almost understood. Maybe.

  The magick was electric in the air, crackling at their skin and making the little hairs on his arms stand up. It felt like the moment just before a wild storm struck. In that wonderful moment, Olyvar couldn’t help but imagine his immediate future; he’d grab the keys from around Mrs. Stanley’s neck and dash up to Mr. Wainwright’s room, Stewart and Sarah running behind h
im, awestruck. He’d find the Doberman’s tongue and all the other ingredients they needed and he’d be back with Carruthers by midnight, where he’d fix that broken ankle singlehandedly and magick them all back to their world… but not before Sarah fell into his arms, telling him what an amazing witch he was.

  He would be the hero for once.

  Not the class idiot.

  It was only when Stewart’s hand tightened on his arm that a flicker of doubt crept in. “Cauldwell!”

  Olyvar’s eyes flashed open. The first thing he saw was Sarah’s shocked expression. Her eyes were as round as pennies, her mouth open wide. He looked over to see Stewart in the same state. Dread making his limbs feel heavy, he forced himself to face Mrs. Stanley.

  Every single strand of her hair was standing up on end. She was like the world’s largest pin cushion. But she had turned over and the key was hovering several inches from her chest.

  They stood in a frozen tableau until Mrs. Stanley let out another chainsaw snore. She smacked her lips and then rolled along the back of her chair. As she moved, her hair wafted in the air like dry leaves in an autumn breeze.

  Olyvar reached across and manoeuvred the keys over Mrs. Stanley’s head, taking care not to tangle the chain in the floating mop of hair. He held them out in triumph. “Ta-da!”

  Sarah clapped her hands together before she snatched the keys from him and clipped them to her belt. “That was brilliant.”

  Olyvar tried not to look impressed with himself but from the sour expression on Stewart’s face, he knew he’d failed.

  Chapter Five

  There was nobody in the back corridors leading to Mr. Wainwright’s private chambers, so they were able to walk the short distance untroubled. “So, what is it you’re looking for, aside from the Doberman’s tongue?” Sarah asked, coming to a stop outside a small doorway. It looked like a little hobbit-hole, small enough for a child to use, but not fully-grown adults. Or gangly students.

  Stewart stopped too. He spoke in a low voice. “I’m not entirely sure. We’ll just take his entire stash, just in case.”

  Sarah looked strangely impressed. “All of it? You’ll leave nothing behind?”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Well, it would if I was staying behind. I’d get into a lot of trouble when the master found his private cupboard empty. But I’m not so, no, it doesn’t really bother me.”

  Stewart blinked. “Why, where you going?”

  “With you,” she stated, with a curt nod.

  “Oh no, you’re not!”

  “Yes, I am.” Again, that assured tone. “I’m not staying here and you’re not leaving me behind to deal with your mess.”

  “But you don’t know anybody in our world. What would you do?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, pushing her small breasts upwards. Olyvar averted his eyes, acutely embarrassed. His ears felt hot again… and something else was happening a little lower down his body. He shuffled his feet.

  “That’s none of your business. But if you want to get in there,” Sarah said, jabbing a finger at the door, “then you’re taking me with you.”

  Stewart considered her for a moment before shaking his head. “Carruthers would kill us.”

  “You don’t have a choice.”

  Olyvar stood to the side, not wanting to be drawn into their debate. They could argue it out between themselves. A part of him was hopeful that Sarah might travel back with them. It made him think that maybe—just maybe—he might have a chance with her after all. Maybe they could start out as friends, chuckling over this strange night in the weeks to come, reliving all of their arguments and failed magick. Maybe from that friendship something deeper might grow. Like a rose growing from a pile of horse shit. Stranger things had happened.

  The other part of him was horrified and stood resolutely behind Stewart. Take her back to their reality? Where she could relive their failed magick attempts to anybody who might listen? Where she could grass them up to Carruthers, causing untold damage to their reputations? Where they might even get expelled because of what she knew about them?

  Nope. Absolutely not.

  The fear of Carruthers outweighed the glimmering dream of his future marriage with Sarah. Decided, he sidled behind her whilst she was busy arguing with Stewart and yanked the keys from where they were clipped to her belt.

  She spun around, her pretty face twisting with betrayal. “Hey!”

  She tried to snatch them back but he was too fast. He tossed them over her head. Stewart caught them easily. “Nicely done, my man! Nicely done!”

  The silence that followed was so thick that Olyvar could almost see it.

  Stewart cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean my man per se,” he said, trying to explain why he’d spoken to Olyvar like one of his cronies and not like the simplest amoeba in the petri dish. “What I meant is you’re a man who…well, who…” His closed his mouth with a snap. Turning away from Olyvar’s shocked expression, Steward slid the key into the door, twisted it, and then pushed it open. All three of them poked their heads through the small doorway and stared around. “Hmm, I was expecting something a little less… library-esque.”

  From floor to ceiling, the room was jam-packed with books. They were crammed onto every shelf and stacked in chaotic piles on the floor. There were heavy tomes, thin pamphlets, and every size in between. Olyvar noted with alarm that some were even chained to the shelves.

  The only thing that each book had in common, whether it was well-thumbed or barely read, was that the spine had been cracked on every one.

  Olyvar shuddered at the barbarity of the person who could treat books in such a way.

  “Now what?” Sarah asked, her eyes flicking between their faces. Olyvar noticed that she barely looked around the room, as if she had been in there a thousand times.

  “Now we search,” Stewart said, sounding unsure of himself. He gestured for Olyvar to go first, so he did, walking as quietly as a burglar. The floor boards creaked beneath his feet.

  “There’s nothing here except books,” he whispered, stating the obvious. “There’s a door but,” Olyvar rattled the doorknob, “it’s locked.”

  Sarah shrugged. “I don’t have keys for that one. What are you going to do?”

  Still riding the high from his last spell, Olyvar didn’t give them a chance to second-guess him. He waved his hands in the air and was amazed when the door swung open with a fizzing pop. Shocked that his spells had worked for a second time, he rearranged his expression to one of mild pleasure and took a step backwards to let Stewart enter first. “After you.”

  Stewart cast him a dark look before walking through the doorway. It was another small room, crammed full of books again, but along the back wall was a large wooden chest that was fastened shut with two huge wrought-iron padlocks. “Well, shit…”

  They all knew that what they needed was in that chest. They also knew that there was no way they could get into the chest without the key or magick. Smashing it open wasn’t an option; it was far too thick for that. Stewart shot a questioning look at Sarah who shook her head slowly.

  “Shit…” he said again. Then he looked at Olyvar. “What do you think?”

  Olyvar took a step closer but then stopped, his senses alerted. There was something heavy in the air. Greasy. Like someone had recently been frying sausages, though without the meaty smell. “Do you feel that?” he whispered.

  “Feel what?” Stewart asked, distracted. He was focused entirely on the chest. “Look, get out of the way. I’ll do it.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea…” The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. “Something doesn’t feel right, Stewart. Can’t you feel it?”

  Sarah was watching him, her head cocked. Her eyes were locked on his. “What can you feel, Olyvar?”

  “It just feels a little…”

  But Stewart wasn’t listening. As if to prove a point, he turned his back on them and started to mouth an incantation.
The unsettled feeling in Olyvar’s stomach grew and grew until his balls crept right back into his body.

  “Stewart, don’t…”

  For the second time that day, Olyvar’s world exploded.

  Chapter Six

  When Olyvar awoke, he expected the colour lilac. He expected not to be able to stand without a headache thumping through his skull. In short, he expected a hangover without the alcohol. What he got was a pair of watery eyes staring down on him. They were surrounded by wrinkled bags of skin, slightly purpled from lack of sleep, and decorated with broken veins. Arching over them were eyebrows that could easily be confused with two prickly hedgehogs.

  Carruthers.

  Olyvar sat up, wincing at the nonexistent pain. “Sir…”

  “Don’t you ‘Sir’ me,” Caruthers barked.

  Olyvar blinked, confused. “But you always tell me off for not—”

  “How on Earth did you pass when Stewart failed,” he said, overriding him. He pointed at him with a hand holding a shriveled, home-rolled cigarette.

  “Pass? Pass what?” Olyvar asked, disorientated.

  “You heard me. You managed to score a pass. By the skin of your teeth, mind you, so don’t start getting smug.”

  Olyvar sat up, still confused. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Sir,” he added.

  Carruthers stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray that was on a nearby desk, sending up a swarm of angry sparks. “We’ll wait for that… bleedin’ plum… to wake up and I’ll give you a detailed run through.”

  They didn’t have to wait for long. Within a few minutes, Stewart’s eyes started to flicker. He moaned and sat up, his feet flopping over the side of the table. “What happened?”

  “You failed! I expected this one to fail,” he said, cocking a thumb in Olyvar’s direction. “But you? You’re the star of the class. The only way I expected to get him through his exams was with you guiding him through. What in hell happened?”

  Stewart blinked. “It was a test?”

  “Yes. Students have been going to Chatsworth for their final exam for hundreds of years. We always create a situation to make it happen. As soon as this one—” He looked at Olyvar with disgust. “—sent that Doberman’s tongue into the potion, I decided it was a good enough time. You were both due to be tested anyway.”