Pure Dead Brilliant (3 page)

Friendly Fire

S
uch is the voracious nature of the West of Scotland gnat that whole communities have been known to spend their entire summer indoors, thereby avoiding offering up their bodies for insect consumption. Thus it was with the Strega-Borgia family, every year without fail. Returning to StregaSchloss with the morning papers and milk, Latch the butler had vanished, bearing a bottle of calamine lotion and a wire brush in the hope of calming down his new crop of gnat bites. Ten minutes later, the sight of their butler, bleeding and calamine-encrusted, made the Strega-Borgias vow that they would rather set their hair on fire than brave the infested air
of Argyll.

Imprisoned in the kitchen, Damp sat at the table, watching as Mrs. McLachlan put finishing touches on a three-tier chocolate meringue cake. When the nanny's attention focused on something outside the kitchen window, Damp stretched out her hand to sample a fingerful of cake. The door swung open and Damp's mother, Signora Baci Strega-Borgia, swept in, a tide of black silk swirling round her from her shoulders to her feet. The overall impact of her costume was somewhat marred by the ragged holes that marched across the brim of her ceremonial witch's hat, the topmost pinnacle of which was dented beyond repair. Oblivious to the sight of her baby daughter's hand poised over the cake, Signora Strega-Borgia dragged her hat from her head and groaned.

“Oh, just look at that! What a
mess
. And Flora—that's the first guest arriving now, isn't it?”

Mrs. McLachlan turned round from the window and gazed at Signora Strega-Borgia. Damp immediately stuffed her hands into her pockets and swallowed the evidence.

“Very nice, dear,” the nanny said, as if seeing one's employer in full-on witch's costume were an everyday occurrence not worthy of comment. “Perhaps
not
the hat, though. Not quite up to scratch. And yes, your first guest is dropping out of the sky, even as
we speak. . . .”

Puzzled by this, Damp slid off her chair and wobbled across to the window. Walking was a recently acquired skill, and the baby still preferred the safety of the crawl or even the bottom-shuffle if the terrain was perilous. Mrs. McLachlan plucked her off the floor and held her up to the window.

“Look, pet—here comes one of Mummy's friends. What a
most
unusual way to travel . . .”

From the wicker gondola suspended below the giant hot-air balloon, the aerial view of StregaSchloss and its surroundings was truly breathtaking. The land rolled in sinuous folds from the peaks of Bengormless down to a wooded plain, which curved round the Strega-Borgias' home before sloping gently into the clear waters of Lochnagargoyle.

Sadly for the arriving guest, the dizzying rate of her descent afforded little time for admiring the view. Ariadne Ventete's first sight of StregaSchloss was through a hail of crisped insects that had expired in the flame of the gas burners keeping her hot-air balloon aloft. She aimed for the garden, sweeping over the fifty-six chimneys of StregaSchloss, heading for the meadow that lay between the house and the sea loch. To slow her rapid approach, she tugged on the chain that opened the vent of the burners and was immediately engulfed in another wave of carbonized gnats.

Accompanied by a sound like a cappuccino-maker, the vast panels of pink balloon silk were for one glorious moment illuminated against the sky.

One of the three beasts sprawled across the stone steps of StregaSchloss was seriously impressed by this short display of firepower.

“Now,
that's
what I call fire.” Sab the griffin dug his elbow into the ribs of his companion, who responded with a snort.

“I could do that sort of squitty piddly little flame with my eyes shut,” replied Ffup, regarding the descending balloon with disdain. “You non-dragons are always impressed by anything bigger than a candle. Check it out—no staying power—just one feeble wee puff and then nothing, nada, zilch, zippety-doo.”

On the dragon's lap, Nestor gave a flatulent
parrrp,
followed almost immediately by an acrid stench.

“Is that what I think it is?” hissed Sab, glaring at the small creature. “Has your offspring filled his diaper
again
? Honestly, if he's not downloading into his pants, he's spitting it up
over your shoulder.” The griffin gave a fastidious shudder and
stood up.

Oblivious to the slander, the baby beast wriggled in Ffup's lap, popped a knobbly talon into his mouth, and closed his eyes with a happy snuffle.

Ffup gazed down at her baby son, as ever amazed at how much life had changed since the infant had hatched on the stroke of midnight of the new year. Gone were the freedoms she had enjoyed for the previous six centuries. Now, with this little creature to look after, Ffup's sleep was interrupted several times every night with infant wails, and as for freedom . . . that was just a distant and fading memory. In consideration of this, Ffup spat rebelliously into a flower bed and gave a fiery snort from both nostrils.

Overhead, the balloon sank lower, its gondola just grazing the treetops, its passenger leaning over the side with a mooring rope dangling from one hand. Down by the loch, Tock the crocodile emerged from the water and lolloped toward the meadow. Knot crawled out of the loch behind him, and made his way effortfully over the pebbles of the foreshore.

“Well,
that's
an improvement,” observed Ffup, picking up her baby and ambling forward to assist in tethering the balloon.

“Taking a bath once a year does seem rather inadequate, don't you think?” said Sab, making his way down the steps to the rose-quartz drive. “Give Knot two weeks and he'll stink again.”

The yeti shook himself, thus ridding his fur of several gallons of loch-water. Each vigorous shimmy was accompanied by a loud slap as potato peelings, coffee grounds, apple cores, chicken bones, and bacon rinds flew from his fur in a swinging arc across the meadow.

“Could someone grab this rope and tie it to a tree before I land on your
dog
?”

The balloonist made shooing noises at Knot and hurled out a length of rope from the gondola. Insulted at being referred to as a mere dog, the yeti pointedly turned his back on the balloon and began to pick lice out of his wet fur and transfer them to his mouth. Ahead of him, Tock shot across the meadow to assist in the landing, his stumpy crocodile legs flattening the grasses, sending clouds of gnats boiling up into the sky in his wake.

The beasts watched impassively as the gondola rocked and bounced, its passenger thrashing and flailing ineffectually with one hand, the other clutching the mooring rope.

“Hurry it up, would you?” she yelled, an edge of panic creeping into her voice. “I'm being eaten alive here.”

Watching this drama from the gnat-free zone of the kitchen, Signora Strega-Borgia felt compelled to help. After all, it had been her idea to offer StregaSchloss as the venue for a study week with her classmates from the Institute of Advanced Witchcraft. Therefore it was her responsibility to look after her guests as a good hostess should. Mrs. McLachlan was busy washing chocolate meringue cake off Damp's legs, hands, and face; Latch was winding himself into rolls of bandages after an over-enthusiastic exfoliating session with a wire brush; her husband, Luciano, had driven Titus and Pandora down to the village to spend their pocket money; and so it fell to her to extend a warm welcome to this first guest. Signora Strega-Borgia opened the kitchen door, nearly tripping over the hunched figure of Marie Bain, the StregaSchloss cook, who was laboring under the weight of a tray laden with what looked like inflated sea slugs.

“Mmmm. Yummy,” lied Signora Strega-Borgia, trying to edge past without inhaling. “Gosh, Marie, how, um . . . inventive.”

The cook frowned and shrugged modestly, causing the sea slugs to quiver revoltingly. “Ees doll mads,” she muttered. “For the Seenyora's veezitors.”

“Super,” gasped Signora Strega-Borgia, hoping she could squeeze past into the great hall before she had to draw breath.

“Ees verr hard to cook, zis.” Marie Bain propped the tray against the kitchen door handle and sniffed wetly. “Ees no vine leafs, zo I use nettles instead. Ees no mince lamb, zo I find some ox-liver in freezer and use zat. Ees no meurrrnt in z'erb garden, zo—”

Trying to stem this ghastly tide of culinary horror, Signora Strega-Borgia interrupted. “Golly. Heavens. How resourceful, Marie. But goodness, must dash, guests arriving—” She pushed past the cook and bolted along the corridor to the great hall, but not before she heard Marie say, “. . . zo I find ze citronella and use zat instead . . . ,” followed by a resounding crash as the tray slipped off the door handle and mercifully tipped its entire contents over the floor.

Citronella? Signora Strega-Borgia shuddered. Citronella was what the family used as their last bastion of defense against the gnats. Citronella was the evil-scented oil with which one slathered one's skin prior to braving the infested air of Argyll. The little bottle of citronella oil was still in its accustomed place in a niche by the front door, but Signora Strega-Borgia found it to be empty. She opened the door and looked across the drive to where the balloon hovered at head height above the meadow, surrounded by beasts, all yelling helpful instructions to the passenger in the gondola, who was obscured by clouds of insects and clearly in need of some help.

“Hold on!” called Signora Strega-Borgia, shrouding her head in a length of black silk to keep the gnats off her face. “I'm coming. Don't panic!”

To Ariadne Ventete, the vision of Signora Strega-Borgia hurtling across the meadow toward her was not comforting. Maddened by gnat bites, deafened by yelling dragons and griffins, utterly confused by waving crocodiles and giant sulky dogs, she assumed that she had stumbled into a Caledonian version of Hell. Furthering this impression, she saw the figure—swathed in deepest black, lacking only the skull and sickle of popular imagery—of the Grim Reaper, racing across the meadow to greet her. Raising her wand above her head, Ariadne stammered out what she fervently hoped was the correct incantation to ward off her fate.

With a flash and an accompanying crash of thunder, the hapless balloonist was instantly surrounded by a vast circle of fire. The beasts took several leaps backward out of harm's way, and Signora Strega-Borgia tripped over a trailing length of black silk and fell flat on her face. Then came an immense crack as all eighteen ropes suspending the wicker gondola under the balloon charred, blackened, and snapped. With a shriek, Ariadne plunged to the ground as the balloon, free of all restraint, shot up into the sky.

The Coven Cometh

T
he sight of a vast pink tent-thing ascending through the air over Lochnagargoyle caused Signor Luciano Strega-Borgia to floor the accelerator and race for home. In the rear of the car, Titus and Pandora pressed their faces to the
windows and gazed out in awe. Sadly, their father was less impressed.

“For heaven's sake, Baci,” he hissed, swerving perilously along the bramble-clad track that led from the village of Auchenlochtermuchty to StregaSchloss. “What madness is
this
?”

“Yup,” said Titus, inwardly wincing. “That looks like one of Mum's dodgy spells.”

“Giant pink pants floating across Lochnagargoyle?” groaned Pandora. “How
embarrassing
.”

Their car drew closer to StregaSchloss, a break in the trees allowing them a brief view of the waters of the loch. In the
distance they saw a ship in full sail, with its wake cutting a perfect line through the reflection of the floating balloon. The sails filled with wind, and a line of white foam was etched in the wake. Titus could just make out a skull and crossbones flying from the top mast.

“What an amazing boat . . . ,” murmured Pandora. “Wonder where it's going?”

Their view of the loch was again obscured by a clump of densely planted chestnut trees. Signor Strega-Borgia stopped in front of a car parked across the ornately carved bronze gate that barred the drive to StregaSchloss.

“We appear to have a visitor,” he remarked, pulling on the hand brake and opening his window. The car ahead was a shiny black convertible with its roof firmly closed. The driver's door gaped open and a woman could be seen peering through the gate with the aid of opera glasses. She turned to greet them, smiling uncertainly as she tucked a tendril of her unruly black hair behind one ear.

“It's locked,” she said apologetically, indicating the gate. “And I'm afraid I was expected at the house by . . .” She paused, rummaged in a pocket of her leather jacket, and produced an exquisitely fashioned silver pocket watch, at which she peered through her glasses. “Oh
dear
. Ten minutes ago.”

“It's not locked,” said Signor Strega-Borgia, opening his car door and stepping out to explain. “It's just jammed shut. Look, I'll show you.”

“Thank you
so
much,” said the woman, peering in at Titus and Pandora through the windows. “I'm sorry. How
rude
of me—let me introduce myself. I'm one of Baci's colleagues from the institute—name's Hecate Brinstone, but most people call me Heck. . . . And you must be Luciano, Titus, and Pandora. Baci has told me so much about you.”

Signor Strega-Borgia hauled open the rusty, screeching gate and secured it to a stone pillar with a frayed bit of baling twine.

“There,” he said. “Not locked at all. Just showing its age like most things in these parts.” He held out his hand to Heck and smiled. “Welcome to StregaSchloss.”

It was at this precise moment that they all became aware of a distant whinnying sound. Around where they stood, the tops of the chestnut trees whipped and tossed, as if being bent aside by some colossal force.

“What the—?” Signor Strega-Borgia threw himself full-length on top of the astonished Heck just as something rocketed past overhead, displacing so much air that for an instant their ears popped—and then it was gone, leaving broken twigs and leaves swirling behind. Titus craned forward in his seat to afford himself a better view.

Thundering toward StregaSchloss came thirteen ink-black horses, their eyes blinkered, their hooves thirty feet above the drive. Steam poured from their nostrils with the effort of pulling a windowless carriage behind them, its wheels spinning wildly out of control. Climbing slowly to his feet and helping Heck to stand, Signor Strega-Borgia brushed dust from his clothes and squinted into the distance. As the carriage neared StregaSchloss, they could all hear the horses scream as they slowed to take the curve onto the rose-quartz courtyard in front of the house.

“
What
a show-off,” muttered Heck, picking twigs and leaves from her hair. “She threatened to pull a stunt like this.”

Pandora opened her door and climbed out gingerly. “What was
that
?” she asked, pointing to StregaSchloss, where the carriage had pulled up in front of the house, still at treetop height, the peaks of Mhoire Ochone eerily visible
through
the bodies of the horses.

“That was Fiamma d'Infer and her precious hearse,” Heck stated, investing each word with as much contempt as she could muster. “Fiamma, our very own rich witch, heiress, society beauty, ex-model, ex-musician, ex-sculptor, and probably, if she keeps on with her dangerous practices at the institute, ex-witch as well—”

“Look—the boat!” interrupted Pandora. “It's dropped anchor opposite the house. And there's an inflatable dinghy tied up at the jetty . . . it must belong to another of Mum's guests.”

“Yup,” agreed Heck. “That belongs to Black Douglas, our only male classmate—used to be a publisher on one of the big London papers, but he decided to chuck it and enroll at the institute. Nice boat . . .”

“Who are all those people on board?” Signor Strega-Borgia's voice betrayed just the faintest hint of apprehension.

“I can't see too well,” said Heck, glasses pressed up against her nose, “but I imagine that'll be the rest of our class. . . .” She sighed. “And as usual, I'll be last to arrive.”

“How many students did you say were in your class?” Signor Strega-Borgia batted a cloud of gnats away from his face as
he spoke.

“I didn't say, but in total there are one hundred and sixty-nine—thirteen groups of thirteen.”

“Honestly, I do wish your mother was a little less vague about arrangements sometimes.” Signor Strega-Borgia addressed the retreating figure of Pandora, who was heading back to the car in an attempt to avoid the gnats. “She told me she'd invited a
few
colleagues over for a
couple
of nights' study leave.”

“Oh dear,” said Heck, her eyes sliding away from Signor Strega-Borgia. “Um, not exactly. My impression was that Baci has invited all twelve of us over here for about a week's study leave, actually. . . .” Her voice trailed off and she added, “But we could put up at the local hotel if you don't have enough room.”

In front of them lay the turreted mass of StregaSchloss, its ninety-six rooms, wine cellar, dungeons, and sprawling attic looking as though it could easily offer hospitality to a small country without feeling too stretched. Signor Strega-Borgia sighed. It would be churlish to turn Baci's colleagues away. Undoubtedly there was ample room for all the guests; there was probably enough food; Latch would manage to scrape together a quantity of linen and bedding to ensure sweet dreams for everyone, but—

Pandora had reached the car and discovered that Titus had activated its central locking system. He was stretched out across the backseat, headphones clamped to his ears, eyes shut, arms flailing as he played an imaginary set of drums in time
to some internal rhythm. In an attempt to draw his attention
to her gnat-bitten plight, she yelled, “Open
up
—I'm being devoured out here—
Titus!

“TITUS! Open. The. DOOR!” Pandora scratched frantically with one hand, hammering the windshield with the palm of the other. Titus's eyes sprang open and he abruptly stopped playing air-drums. A puzzled expression crossed his face as he opened the door for his sister. He removed the headphones from his ears and frowned at them.

“Weird,” he muttered, looking out of the window to where Heck and his dad stood. The student witch met his eye and winked. Just once, but unmistakably a wink meant just for Titus.

“What's weird?” asked Pandora, flopping onto the seat beside him.

“My CD stopped in mid-track,” said Titus, “and just for a second or two, I could hear a woman saying, ‘Open the car door, Titus—your sister's waiting'—and then the music started
up again.”

“Big deal.” Pandora waved a dismissive hand in Heck's direction. “She's a
witch
. They're all witches. They'll all be pulling weird kinds of stunts
while . . . while . . .” Her voice trailed off and she blinked, rubbing her eyes and frowning. With a wave, Signor Strega-Borgia began to walk back to their car, and Heck climbed into hers and closed the door.

“
What?
While what?” demanded Titus. “I
hate
it when you just trail off in mid-sentence like that.”

“Did you see that?” squeaked Pandora. “Her car—that black thing—it just changed into a pumpkin, just for a second, a pumpkin pulled by rats. . . .”

“I don't know if I'm up for this,” groaned Titus. “All Mum's classmates, all of them probably as incompetent as Mum, every last one of them trying to outdo the rest. We'll be falling over cauldrons and being stabbed by pointy hats while they're houseguests. They'll all want frogs for breakfast—they'll take over the washing machine with endless black robes needing laundering—the fridge will be stuffed full of tincture of maggot and bottles of newts' eyeballs in brine—the house'll stink of brimstone and candle wax—”

As Heck started her car, a puff of small black bats emerged squeaking and chittering from the exhaust. Seeing this, Titus slumped back in his seat and rolled his eyes meaningfully. Signor Strega-Borgia did not seem inclined to be cheerful either. The remainder of the drive to StregaSchloss took place in uninterrupted silence as the three Strega-Borgias individually contemplated the current invasion of their home by twelve proto-sorcerers.