Pure Dead Frozen Read online

  At this point, the giant dragon bringing up the rear of their little portal-seeking procession nearly stood on him, and for a moment chaos ruled, during which time Titus learned a few very choice oaths he never thought to hear, especially not from the mouth of his sweet little great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother. Then Strega-Nonna seized him by the hand and forced him to half run, half walk beside her, all the time talking nonstop and filling Titus’s terrible darkness with words. Three-quarters of what she said sounded like complete nonsense, but now and then would come a phrase or an idea that would take Titus’s breath away.

  “…Of course, most of this is your younger sister’s doing. She was born with the Gift, as you know, but the Gift is a terrible thing to be given to one so young. It puts so much raw power into such a tiny, untried vessel. Like the ginger beer your great-great-grandfather tried to make when he was a boy. Decanted it into earthenware jars and sealed them up tight with corks and beeswax…two weeks later they blew apart—too much fizz in too small a space. That’s what I mean about the Gift. Is that dragon still behind us? Good. Useful creatures, dragons. We’ll be needing all our beasts about us, boy. Mark my words. Now. Back to your sister…where was I? Ah, yes. Yes. Her spells. Have you noticed that she weaves her spells out of what she knows and loves? Like a little magpie, taking shiny things to make its own. Just as she does, collecting shiny, sparkly things to weave her spells with. Except your little sister collects stories, not things. Heaven knows which story we’re in just now—in this wood, the wolves beyond, and you, with your poor frozen eyes…. It’s a mix of fairy tales, all stirred together. I think it’s ‘Red Riding Hood’ combined with ‘The Snow Queen,’ for which we must give thanks, because last summer, if you recall, thanks to her, we had ‘Thumbelina’ mixed up with ‘Sleeping Beauty,’ and that was a trial. Keep up, laddie, you’ve much to do before you rest; miles to go and promises to keep. Did I mention that you’re the spitting image of my son? It’s miraculous how the centuries can pass, the sands of time sifting over the graves of those we loved, shifting and settling until our dead become part of the land in which they lie, with their cities crumbled and forgotten, their names vanished from the Earth, and then, as if pre-ordained, a child will come, bearing the face of one whom we never thought to see…ever again.”

  Strega-Nonna stopped and turned round and placed her quivering hand on Titus’s chest. Titus felt his heart leap, as if the old woman had sent a bolt of electricity through him. Abruptly, she grabbed his hands and put them on either side of her face.

  “See? Or since you cannot see, feel,” she demanded. “And you took me for a dried and withered crone. Yet even from this desiccated twig comes some sap. Feel this water, Titus, son of Luciano. Know that you are the great-great-great-great-great-grandson of Raphael di Clemente Borgia, and you not only carry him in your blood, you also bear his features as your birthright. Feel my old woman’s tears and, with them, melt the ice that binds your heart and mind. You are not blind, but frozen.”

  Titus would have fallen then, collapsed on the forest floor, had it not been for Strega-Nonna’s clasping his shoulders and forcing him to stay upright to feel the full force of her words.

  “Aaah,” he groaned, hit by a wave of the most unbearable sorrow, finding himself helpless to resist as he was dragged under by a riptide of grief that, in all his sheltered thirteen years on the planet, he hadn’t known existed. He was swept up in the agony suffered by countless parents who had watched their children die, the pain of lovers torn apart by death, the endless mourning of Strega-Nonna’s centuries of loneliness as, time and time again, she defied Death and, in doing so, lost everything she had ever held dear. His hands wet with her tears, her face growing wet with his own, Titus stood weeping, blinded, and dumbfounded as feelings he couldn’t even begin to define washed through him.

  “What?” he managed, his voice unrecognizable.

  “Don’t be ashamed of your tears, child,” Strega-Nonna whispered. “Be proud. Even the best of grown men weep. With your tears you melt the icy enchantment that binds your heart and soul.”

  Titus blinked at the old lady, trying to bring her into focus through the shimmering dazzle of tears that clung to his lashes. If ever he’d wished for the privacy afforded by sunglasses, now was the time. Unaccustomed to crying, his eyes felt as if they’d shriveled up like raisins. And it was bright. Overhead, sunshine was beating down through the tree canopy, spangling him with lozenges of light, of—

  “NONNA!” he roared, so loudly that the dragon tiptoeing behind him gave a startled snort and set a tree alight with its nasal flamethrowers. “Nonna! IcanseeIcanseeIcansee!” And to everyone’s surprise, especially his own, Titus wrapped his arms around Strega-Nonna and spun her round in a circle, yelling, “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” before planting a smacking kiss on her pleated brow and gently returning her to the ground.

  “What was all that about?” Pandora hissed as they raced through the woods after the now remarkably sprightly Strega-Nonna.

  “I, um—can I explain later?” Titus gasped, his chest heaving with the effort of keeping up with the old woman’s accelerated pace. “I’m not—I’m, ah…I don’t think I understand…yet.”

  The light grew brighter as the forest thinned out; then suddenly they emerged from the trees, out onto a stony path cut into the side of a hill. To their right, the land fell away, down to where a stream wound through rocks and clumps of grass and heather. Ahead, the path was intimidatingly steep, a narrow deer track, well-defined but so awash with water that it appeared to be more of a waterfall than a footpath. Undeterred, Strega-Nonna struck off up the hillside, her feet splashing through puddles and sending small rocks bouncing downhill to where the others labored breathlessly behind. Higher and higher they climbed, until they reached a coire scooped into the hillside where, mercifully, Strega-Nonna stopped, and moments later, red-faced and breathless, Titus, Pandora, and the dragon caught up. Tarantella emerged, blinking, from the depths of Pandora’s shirt and scanned her surroundings.

  “Dear me,” she said, eyes swiveling disconcertingly in several directions at once.

  “What now?” Pandora glared at her.

  “Oh…nothing.” Tarantella sighed. “Just…well…Oh, come on, team. Is this it? This godforsaken spot is the reason we’ve been running flat out for what feels like several lifet—”

  “We? Running?” Titus interrupted. “Spider, the only thing about you that’s been running are your mouthparts.”

  “It’s not a godforsaken spot either, spider,” said a scratchy little voice. “It’s our blessed, heaven-sent home, actually.”

  Pandora gasped out loud. Suddenly, several things fell into place. She knew where she was. Exactly where she was. Last time she’d been here, in Coire Crone—“—was last summer, when you were hiding from that dreadful little terrorist. Welcome back, child.”

  “Pandora?” Titus’s voice vibrated, pitched high as if strung too tightly. “Who is that? Who’s speaking? What is this place?”

  “Relative of yours, I take it?” the voice continued. “Better hope he’s not afraid of bats, hmm?” And with no warning, the sky above their heads darkened as thousands of ragged black shapes took to the air.

  …Twice Shy

  Unaccustomed to deceiving his wife, Luciano felt his head spin with the effort of sustaining two huge lies. Not only had he not told Baci about the Mafia menace heading their way, but he also had neglected to mention the biting baby. Not yet, he decided, bringing the Volvo to a halt on the rose quartz drive outside StregaSchloss’s front door. He pulled on the hand brake while he gathered his thoughts. Tried to gather his thoughts. Is it…asleep? Please, God, let it be asleep. Don’t think I can cope if it looks at me again with those pizza di pomodoro eyes…. And its teeth? Dear God, no, don’t think about those. Think, think…Think a happy thought, Luciano, he commanded himself. Think of…sunshine, laughter, children, babies—no, not babies. No. Come on, man, pull yourself together or Baci
will wonder what on earth is the matter.

  “Darling?”

  “Cara mia?”

  “Is there something the matter?” In the backseat, Baci was gathering her wraps and gloves, her bag and the infernal goblin’s—No, no, no, Luciano, the baby’s—travel bag, and smiling at her husband’s reflection in the rearview mirror.

  Luciano forced a smile onto his face, forced a lightness into his voice, and forced himself not to dwell upon the huge deception he was practicing on his poor, innocent wife. “Heavens, no, Baci. You, my darling wife, you have made me the happiest, the proudest man in all of Scotland. Four fine childr—” Was that a hiss? Had that vile monstrosity dared to hiss at him? Luciano’s eyes slid sideways to where it sat, strapped in, leering at him. No teeth visible, thankfully—

  “Oh, look, Luciano, he’s smiling at you. Ahhhhh, how adorable.”

  Adorable, thought Luciano woodenly, his eyes firmly fixed on the rearview mirror. No. Not even remotely adorable, that thing. Repulsive, terrifying, bowel-clenchingly, monstrously wrong—but adorable? Never.

  “Never what?” Baci looked up, puzzled. “I didn’t quite catch that. Sorry, darling. Too busy making sure that I’ve got all my stuff from the hospital. Honestly—I was only in for what, twenty-four hours, and in that time somehow I managed to acquire six bouquets of flowers, four boxes of chocolates, a ton of magazines, and enough bath foam to cover StregaSchloss in suds from top to bott—What’s that sound? That weird hissing noise? What on earth is it, Luciano?”

  It was doing it again. Think, man. Don’t just sit there, say something.

  “Slow puncture. Or…or…ah…maybe it’s the, um”—Luciano cudgeled his brains for what little he remembered of the oily bits under the hood—“the, er, cylinder-head-rotor-arm-carburetor-valve…gasket.”

  Baci’s eyes rolled. Fortunately for Luciano, his wife’s knowledge of mechanical engineering made his look positively encyclopedic.

  “Gosh. Sounds fearsomely expensive. Oh, look, here’s Minty come to welcome the new baby.” And blessedly, so distracted was Baci that she failed to notice the red eyes that rapidly opened and closed again, scanning the new arrival in one blink.

  The smell of baking drifted enticingly upstairs, a tendril of warm vanilla curling itself around the open door of Damp’s new bedroom, where, as if borne on a strong wind, it was sucked toward the abandoned picture book lying on the rag rug by the bed. The vanilla scent spiraled down onto the final page of the book and vanished into the little illustration above the word

  finis

  Paddling round the island’s shoreline for what felt like the millionth time, Ffup suddenly stopped and sniffed the air. She sniffed again…and again, a wide grin spreading across her mouth, her drooping wings springing upright.

  “Ooooh, yesss!” she squealed. “Yes, yes, yes. Ffup, the great navigator, does it again. Without compass, map, Sherpas, or even radar, I’ve found the way home. What a nose, huh? And what’s more, some kind soul is baking white-chocolate-and-vanilla brownies back at the happy homestead…. Oh YES, YES, YES, I’m there. Wait for meeee. Don’t eat them all before we get there….”

  Wading rapidly through the shallows, the dragon scooped up Damp and, following the scent of baking, delivered them both back to StregaSchloss in time, she hoped, for lunch. Trading the island’s chilly shoreline for the rag rug in Damp’s bedroom, Ffup blessed the good fortune that had brought them safely home. It had been deceptively easy to travel to the island; the problem had been trying to retrace their steps. In fact, just before Ffup’s nose had picked up the smell of vanilla, the dragon had wondered if they’d ever be able to go home; wondered if the millions of mussels clinging to the rocks of the island were in any way edible; and, finally, had wondered if falling out with her fiancé hadn’t been A Very Bad Idea indeed. Stomach growling loudly, Ffup was following Damp downstairs, lost in thought, when she remembered the stone clutched in her hot little paw. Uh-oh. Bother. That would never do. She was totally useless at telling lies. Mrs. McLachlan would be bound to ask her if she’d had any luck in finding her missing engagement ring, and she would be totally incapable of saying, “Who, me? What engagement ring?” without literally bursting into flames of embarrassment.

  “You go on downstairs,” she said to Damp. “I need a pee.”

  And as if to prove her point about being a hopeless liar, a little flame of shame at this fib popped out of one of her nostrils. Ffup fled upstairs before Damp could notice and bolted into the little girl’s bedroom, closing the door behind her.

  Where? Where could she hide it? Chest heaving, the dragon scanned the bedroom for good places. Inside one of the Russian dolls frowning from the lineup on top of the chest of drawers? Brilliant. Ffup seized the largest doll and tried to unscrew its head from its base. To her horror, the wooden shape splintered in her paws. Oh heck. Oh bother, bother, bother. Oh ouch, she whimpered, picking hand-painted splinters out of her tender paw pads and poking the shattered remains of the doll down the back of the chest of drawers. Now what? Under the pillow? Too obvious, and way too “Princess and the Pea”–like to boot. In Damp’s toy box? No. Might be found by accident. Ffup groaned, staring at Damp’s bed for inspiration. Ahh. There. Inside her pajama-case piglet. Perfect. The very thing. Damp never ever used it for pajamas, mainly because every time the alarmingly furry pink pig was unzipped, a hidden sensor launched the whole thing into a loud chorus of—

  “I’m PRETTY and PINK!!

  I’m just a PIG, just watch me WALLOW—”

  “Shut up, shut up—oh, for heaven’s sake,” Ffup moaned, grabbing the pajama case, stuffing the stone into it, zipping it shut, and hurling it back under Damp’s bed with a squeak of relief.

  Moments later she rejoined the little girl at the head of the stairs leading down to the great hall.

  “Thanks for waiting. Shall we go and see if there’s any lunch?”

  Damp frowned up at Ffup and sighed. “Didn’t flushit,” she observed, adding, “Not washit hands, dirty.”

  “Whaaaat?” Ffup roared. “What is this? Boot camp? Boarding school? D’you think you’re a matron or something?”

  “Not matron,” Damp said sadly, reminded of Sister Passterre, and thus of the new baby. “Not wantit, matron. Don’t care. Be a dirty dragon. Germy paws. Dirty, dirrrty, dirrrrr—”

  “Damp, my wee pet,” said Mrs. McLachlan, appearing at the foot of the stairs, her smile showing just how delighted she was to see the little girl home safely. “And Ffup too? Marvelous. Now, dears, I’m sure you’re going to tell us all about your adventures, but first let’s wash our hands and paws, shall we? Heaven knows where they, or you, have been, but we wouldn’t like to get nasty, dirty germs on the new baby, would we?”

  Oh brother, thought Ffup, realizing why the nanny’s voice had been so artificially upbeat when by rights she should have been demanding where on earth they had been. The front door stood open, revealing Signor and Signora Strega-Borgia, followed by Minty, who was holding a tiny shawled bundle in her arms.

  Seeing the glad faces waiting to greet him, Luciano felt he was choking on his own lies. Everyone looked so…normal. Evidently none of them suspected a thing. His gaze fell across first Damp and then Baci, and for one brief moment he saw them drenched in blood. Then the thing in Minty’s arms poked a tiny fist out of its shawl, Damp’s face crumpled, and, giving a loud wail, she fled back upstairs to her bedroom.

  “I’ll go to her, dear.” Mrs. McLachlan took Baci’s coat and steered her away from the stairs. “Just leave her to me. Now, Latch has lit the fire in the drawing room for you and the wee baby, and we thought you might like to feed the wee mite in privacy before supper—”

  “NO!” Luciano realized he’d shouted out loud. The prospect of Baci being left alone with that…that thing was unbearable. But how on earth would he, could he—and now everyone was staring at him, puzzled by his shout of denial. Think, Luciano. Say something. Anything. “I mean, no. Baci is exhausted. The journey, the traffi
c, the snow—No, darling.” He held up a hand as Baci began to protest. “Please, allow me to take charge. I want you to have a little lie-down: put your feet up, relax. The baby is fine; look, he’s sleeping contentedly in Minty’s arms. Why not just use this opportunity to unwind?”

  Baci was about to object, about to explain that she was currently so unwound that she felt like an unraveled strand of overcooked spaghetti, when the baby took matters into its own hands.

  “Bwaaah,” it wailed, mouth opening wide, its green eyes fixed on Minty, its expression radiating utter misery at discovering itself to be held in the wrong arms entirely. “WAAAAaaahBWaaaah,” it squeaked, entirely unimpressed by the young nanny’s attempts to hush, soothe, rock, and comfort it.

  Before Baci practically snatched the infant out of Minty’s arms, Luciano risked a peek. Shielded by its shawl from everyone’s gaze but his, the baby didn’t pause in the middle of its howls of outrage. Mouth wide open, tiny fists batting the air, it turned to face Luciano and winked evilly. Seconds later, Baci bore it off to the drawing room.

  The Devil Boots Up

  “There, you little toad,” Isagoth muttered, tugging at the bottle. “Come on, let go, it’s empty.”

  Baby Borgia ignored this plea to relinquish his grip. Instead, he sucked harder, his tiny face turning pink with effort. Loud, squeaky sucking sounds came from the empty feeding bottle as the infant dragged down lungfuls of air, an action that boded ill for his newborn digestion.

  “LET GO!” Isagoth roared, startling the baby and causing him to open his mouth in distress. The bottle’s flattened nipple reinflated with a small plosive pop, and air rushed in to fill the vacuum. Something similar happened to the baby, except he didn’t go pop, he went waaah.