Pure Dead Trouble

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  This one's for Michael,

  who saw a forest while I was moaning about being

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  Contents

  Dramatis Personae

  Things I'm Never Going to Say to My Kids

  Nothing to Declare

  The Broken Latch

  Feet of Clay

  Ring Fever

  Toil and Trouble

  The Truth About Hell

  The Magic Word

  Muddy Waters

  Neither Fish, nor Fowl, nor Good Red Herring

  The Witness in the Moat

  The Witness in the Ashes

  The Witness in the Thorns

  A Spell of Good Weather

  Hell's Bells and Buckets of Blood

  The Witness in the Water

  An Empty Net

  A Walk in the Woods

  A Brush with Greatness

  Assault and Battery

  A Ring of Spells

  Ring of Iron

  Out to Lunch

  A Silent Proposal

  A Demon Disguised

  Zander Smells a Rat

  Dragon Agony

  Fire and Ice

  Crash and Burn

  Ring of Dank Water

  Raining Dogs

  The Biter Bit

  Through a Glass, Darkly

  A Devil Dines Out

  Pure Dead Romantic

  When the Feeling's Gone

  Ring of Stone

  Stone of Power

  Into the Dark

  In Deep

  Latch Alone

  The Witnesses for Hope

  Gliossary

  Dramatis Personae

  THE FAMILY

  TITUS STREGA-BORGIA—thirteen-year-old hero

  PANDORA STREGA-BORGIA—nearly eleven-year-old heroine

  DAMP STREGA-BORGIA—their two-year-old sister

  SIGNOR LUCIANO AND SIGNORA BACI STREGA-BORGIA—parents of the above

  STREGA-NONNA—great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother (cryogenically preserved) of Titus, Pandora, and Damp

  THE GOOD HELP THAT WAS HARD TO FIND

  MRS. FLORA MCLACHLAN—nanny to Titus, Pandora, and Damp

  LATCH—StregaSchloss butler

  MARIE BAIN—possibly the worst cook in the Western Hemisphere

  ALEXANDER IMLACH—temporary butler

  THE BEASTS

  TARANTELLA—spider with attitude

  SAB, FFUP, AND KNOT—mythical dungeon beasts

  NESTOR—Ffup's infant son

  TOCK—crocodile inhabitant of StregaSchloss moat

  MULTITUDINA, THE ILLITERAT—rat, mother to multitudes, and Pandora's pet

  THE SLEEPER—Scottish unreconstructed-male mythical beast ORYNX—salamander and unwilling slave

  THE INCIDENTALS

  JOLENE AND LEX MCHAIL—American tourists on a quest

  DR. PENELOPE UMBRA—research scientist for SapienTech UK

  THE IMMORTALS

  ISAGOTH—Defense Minister of Hades (Wet Affairs)

  S'TAN THE BOSS—First Minister of the Hadean Executive

  ALPHA—centaur and librarian

  Nothing to Declare

  he Strega-Borgias stood out from the crowd clustered around the silent baggage carousel at Glasgow Airport mainly because of the pallor of their skin and the somber black of their clothing. Surrounded by sunburnt holidaymakers scantily clad in shades of lagoon turquoise, screaming orange, and eye-watering pink, the Strega-Borgias looked as if they had recently returned from a funeral; indeed, as if all five of them had narrowly escaped being buried themselves.

  Signora Baci Strega-Borgia propped herself against the handle of a baggage trolley and yawned. Her husband, Signor Luciano Strega-Borgia, shifted the sleeping weight of their youngest daughter, Damp, onto his other shoulder and closed his eyes wearily. It was three hours past midnight and every one of the two hundred and fifty passengers just off the delayed flight from Milan had several desires in common: to collect their luggage, find a bathroom, and head for a horizontal surface upon which to fall into a much-needed sleep.

  The baggage carousel lurched to life with a juddering series of hiccups and began to turn, each orbit bringing suitcases tumbling into view, some of which had suffered horribly in transit. A teenage boy lurking on the fringes of the carousel buried his face in his hands and uttered a heartfelt groan of denial at the sight of his backpack wobbling toward him.

  “No…,” he whispered. “Please, let it not be mine.” He peered through his fingers at the eviscerated luggage bearing the Strega-Borgia crest and his name scrawled on a label that drooped from a shredded strap.

  “If I were you, Titus, and thank heavens I'm not, I'd just turn and walk away.” Pandora Strega-Borgia raised her eyebrows and regarded her brother through slitted eyes. “Mind you,” she added, “if I were you, I'd never have tried to import five ripe Gorgonzolas in my backpack either….”

  Around Titus and Pandora the crowd thinned abruptly, noses wrinkling in disgust, muttering about the catastrophic effect of nasty foreign food on innocent Scottish stomachs. As Titus dragged his backpack off the carousel, the smell of rotting cheeses intensified, causing Pandora to cough and turn swiftly around in search of less-polluted air.

  Across the concourse, Baci Strega-Borgia caught sight of her familiar black hatboxes and flight cases that held her essential travel kit of broomsticks, collapsa-cauldrons, and ceremonial hats, not to mention the little ventilated crate in which her portable frog collection had traveled the long hours between Italy and Scotland. It's hard to imagine a white face turning even paler, but somehow Baci managed it.

  “The frogs…,” she whimpered. “Oh heck. …” She reached out with black-gloved hands and plucked the battered remains of the ventilated crate from the carousel.

  “If that's what I think it is,” Luciano muttered, “we'd better grab the rest of our stuff and get out of here, pront—”

  Climbing past the rubber flaps through which suitcases trundled from the hold of the plane into the airport was a naked young man, loudly complaining about the flight, the weather, the lamentable lack of footmen, and his current state of undress. Behind him came another vociferous complainant, also regrettably unclad. Around them the crowd parted, some covering their eyes in embarrassment, others round-eyed and open-mouthed in amazement, their attention focused on the growing number of naked young men clambering off the carousel to join their kin, who stood shivering in a huddle on the concourse floor.

  In the confusion, the Strega-Borgias hurled their luggage onto a trolley and stole away, hissing instructions to each other as they headed for Customs and Excise and, hopefully, their waiting car.

  �
�Don't turn back.” Luciano propelled his wife ahead of him, her long black cloak billowing behind her.

  “But they're my frogs,” Baci wailed, torn between delight that her amateur dabblings in magic had worked and horror at her part in turning her crated amphibians into escapee royals-in-the-buff.

  Luciano quickened his pace, causing Damp to wake up and gaze over her father's shoulder to where Titus and Pandora were following behind, faces no longer pale but brick-red with shame.

  “I don't think I've ever been quite so embarrassed in my entire life,” Pandora complained as the family drew to a halt at the customs booth. Behind them, Titus saw several armed police officers moving purposefully toward the baggage carousel.

  “Keep moving,” Luciano said, attempting to look as innocent as possible for the benefit of the customs official, who regarded the family with complete indifference. Holding their breath, the Strega-Borgias rolled past, along the Nothing to Declare channel and out, at last, into the waiting throng of chauffeurs, taxi drivers, and other people's relatives, all waiting for travelers off the delayed flight from Milan.

  In vain the Strega-Borgias scanned the faces in front of them, looking for their butler, Latch, who had been instructed to meet them on their return. After three fruitless circuits of the crowd, during which he'd been run into with laden trolleys, had his toes stepped on by women in high heels, and been mistakenly embraced by a drunken Glaswegian, Luciano lost what remained of his temper.

  “Oh, for heaven's sake !” he exploded, causing Damp to cover her ears and emit a startled squeak. “Remind me never to go on holiday ever again. It's been a complete catalog of disasters from start to finish. Not only have we just endured a journey from Hell in an overcrowded sardine can accompanied by decomposing cheeses and rampaging frogs, but now we can't even return to the comforts of home because our feckless employee hasn't bothered to sh—”

  “Darling, calm down.” Baci tugged at her husband's arm, uncomfortably aware that heads were beginning to turn in their direction. “Look, if Latch has forgotten, we can always take a taxi, or rent a car, or—”

  “Perhaps we could just unpack one of your precious broomsticks and fly home,” Luciano hissed, shaking off Baci's arm and glaring at his family.

  Titus wearily removed a cell phone from his pocket, keyed in the number for home, and passed the phone across to his father. Baci slumped over the handle of their luggage trolley while Pandora tried to give the impression that she was in no way whatsoever related to this family of deranged travelers. In her father's arms, Damp listened to the unanswered ringing as Luciano waited for someone at StregaSchloss to pick up the phone.

  A long way north, the moonlit silence in the great hall was broken by the insistent shrilling of a telephone. The sound echoed off walls, suits of armor, mirrors, and windows, penetrated through wooden doors, chimed along rows of crystal glasses and china, and at length reached the pantry, where Multitudina, the free-range Illiterat, lay snoring beside a halfgnawed KitKat. Her whiskers twitched and her pink nose wrinkled peevishly as she surfaced from sleep, blearily aware that something was demanding her attention. Multitudina stretched all four legs, flexed her claws, and sniffed the air for clues. She dragged herself upright and scuttled out of the pantry, across the flagstones of the kitchen floor, and along the corridor leading to the great hall.

  “Somebody get that, would you?” she squeaked, outraged that her beauty sleep was being disturbed by thoughtless callers. “I don't do telephones,” she explained to the empty hall, adding, “Come on. Pick—up—the—phone.”

  Just as suddenly as it began, the ringing stopped, but by then Multitudina had stumbled upon the body of Latch, lying like a human draft stop across the front doorstep.

  The rat was all too aware that humans didn't voluntarily lie in crumpled heaps unless something was seriously amiss. She also dimly understood that it was up to her to do something about it. That something probably involved calling for medical assistance, so she hauled herself onto the hall table and regarded the telephone with little idea of how to make it work. In some confusion, she peered at the instructions written below the receiver.

  “Fire, please, amblans …” she translated, her illiteracy normally a source of rodent pride, but on this occasion proving to be a major handicap in her efforts to summon help. “Fire, please, amblans…,” she muttered, and then, in a flash of understanding, “Fire, police, ambulance!” Delighted with herself, she peered at the number and began to press the requisite buttons, but no matter how many times or how determinedly she thumped the numbers written next to FIRE POLICE AMBULANCE, all she could hear was a computerized voice demanding that she replace the handset and redial.

  The Broken Latch

  sullen gray dawn was beginning to break over Lochnagargoyle as a taxi pulled up at the gate on the northern boundary to the StregaSchloss estate. Barely awake, Titus fumbled with the taxi's door and dragged himself out into the damp air. Ahead of him, faint shapes reared out of the mist: ancient oaks in full leaf, the distant silhouette of the jetty, and the dew-soaked meadow looking like a sheet of beaten silver. Stiff and sandyeyeballed, Titus drew in a deep lungful of Argyll air and, lifting the latch, pushed the heavy metal gates open and waved the taxi on. With a yawn that made his jaw creak, Titus slumped back into the vehicle's interior, wondering as he did so why it was that at five A.M. he felt so utterly ravenous. He was barely conscious, but his stomach was loudly signaling that it was wide awake and impatient to begin the day's work. Titus laid his head against the glass of the window and groaned. Since Latch had forgotten to pick the family up at the airport, he'd probably also omitted to replenish the contents of the fridge, pantry, and bread box.

  In the front passenger seat, Signor Strega-Borgia stared straight ahead, his thoughts running parallel to those of his son. Even the sight of StregaSchloss and the knowledge that cool linen sheets, feather pillows, and deep, dreamless slumber were within reach failed to give Luciano any comfort whatsoever. He closed his eyes, attempting to divert his thoughts onto matters more conducive to sleep than his current desire to slam doors, hurl suitcases, and vent his rage at Latch for letting them all down. Luciano had just managed to talk himself into staying calm, saying nothing, and dealing with his feckless employee after catching up on some much-needed rest when the taxi driver drew to a halt on the rose-quartz drive and demanded a sum of money so outrageous it made Luciano's eyes water.

  “You can't be serious,” he squeaked; then, adopting a more macho tone and forcing his voice to drop two octaves, he added, “That's daylight robbery. Our flights cost less than that.”

  The taxi driver regarded him with utter indifference, his fish eyes betraying no sign that the sum in question was open to negotiation.

  “Come on,” Luciano attempted. “Be reasonable. I'm not a millionaire. I'll give you half of what you're asking, but that's as far as I'm prepared to go.”

  Titus caught sight of the taxi driver's expression in the rearview mirror and immediately averted his eyes toward the front door of StregaSchloss, wishing he was on the other side of it instead of being forced to witness his father doing this full-on tightwad number.

  “Listen, pal,” the taxi driver growled, “this here's anti-social hours, you live in the back of beyond, I've ripped the bum aff my motor driving up yon track. I'm never gonnae get a return fare back to Glescae, your wain needs a diaper change, and there's something that's stinkin' in your luggage. …” He paused, narrowed his eyes, and poked Luciano in the chest with an extended finger. “And youse're telling porkies about no being millionaires. Lookit yon”—he indicated the honeysuckle-draped walls of StregaSchloss—“only someone wi' wads of dosh would own a hoose like yon. So get a move on, pal. Ma meter's still running.”

  “Dad. …” Titus leant forward and grabbed Luciano's arm.

  “Don't interfere, Titus,” Luciano hissed. “Highwaymen are, as a rule, exceedingly dangerous and don't take kindly to being interrupted while robbing innocent trave
lers.” He removed his wallet from an inside pocket and peered at the lamentable lack of cash within.

  “Dad, it's urgent, look—”

  “Titus, will you quit trying to interrupt?” Luciano snapped, turning back to the taxi driver. “Um. I'm frightfully sorry, but I don't appear to have any cash. D'you take credit cards? A check?”

  “DAD!” Titus yelled. “There's a body on the doorstep….”

  In the confusion that followed, all thoughts of taxi fares and running meters evaporated. Running across the drive and up the stone steps, Luciano discovered why Latch hadn't arrived at the airport. Lying sprawled across the brass doorstep, Latch showed no flicker of consciousness whatsoever in his open eyes. Only the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath his shirt indicated that he was still alive.

  “Dinnae try to move him,” the taxi driver advised as he bent over the butler, his face gray with concern. “You find something warm to cover him with, and I'll phone for an ambulance.”

  From her hiding place in the hall cupboard, Multitudina silently wished him good luck. God knows, she'd tried her best, but the telephone had refused to cooperate…. She decided to offer assistance and scuttled across the hall, skidding to a halt beside the taxi driver's sneaker-clad feet, where she paused for a few moments to catch her breath. Overhead, the taxi driver was issuing directions to StregaSchloss for the benefit of the ambulance crew; silhouetted against the pale light of dawn coming through the front door, the StregaBorgias were gathered around their fallen butler, their faces hollow with fright as they tried to comprehend what had happened. Luciano gently laid a picnic blanket over Latch, bending low to whisper in his ear, “Don't worry, help is on its way. Just hang on and we'll get you sorted out….”

  Scaling the taxi driver's leg in two seconds flat, Multitudina emerged on the telephone table, where her arrival produced dramatic results. With a scream, the man dropped the receiver and backed away. Multitudina, sensing that yet again she'd failed in her attempt to assist, tried to make amends. Leaping back down onto the hall floor, she hurtled toward the open door, clambered onto Latch's blanketed form, and, to everyone's horror, began to administer the kiss of life to the inert butler.