Pure Dead Wicked (2 page)

The Money Hum

F
rom as far back as anyone could remember, there had always been somebody mending the roof at StregaSchloss. A succession of roofers with good heads for heights had clambered over its slates, scaled its pointy turrets, and once, memorably, poured hot lead over a particularly leaky section. This had caused the attic to burst into flames and initiated a temporary diaspora of several thousand attic-dwelling spiders.

Like the Forth Road Bridge, the roof at StregaSchloss was never finished. No sooner had one tribe of tradesmen vanished into the surrounding hills clutching a large check than another would appear, bearing scaffolding and slates, a stack of small newspapers with large headlines, and several tartan thermos flasks. Two days after the incident with the slipping slates, the Strega-Borgias braced themselves for the arrival of yet another firm of roofing contractors.

There was a pattern to this, Titus observed, stepping around a brimming soup tureen placed strategically under a leak from the cupola of the great hall. First of all, the roofers would arrive and consult with Mum. There would be much sucking in of air through teeth (the ferocity of the inhalation indicating how expensive the work was going to be). This would be followed by the traumatic discovery that none of their cell phones would work this far into the wilds of Argyll. Next came the erection of a web of rusty scaffolding; this was Titus's favorite stage, since his vocabulary of spectacular Anglo-Saxon curses had been garnered entirely from listening to these roofing tribes at work.

Titus practiced a few of these as his bare toes made contact with a particularly squelchy bit of rug in the great hall.

“I
heard
that,” muttered Mrs. McLachlan, who came striding along the corridor from the kitchen. “I've lost Damp again,” she said, “and I did hear the postman, but where's the post gone?”

A distant flushing sound followed by a cacophony of StregaSchloss plumbing alerted them both to Damp's whereabouts.

“FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE!” yelled Mrs. McLachlan. “DAMP! STOP IT!” And she shot along the corridor, expertly hurdling over brimming bowls and buckets in a futile attempt to divert the baby from her discovery that flush toilets can make all sorts of things disappear.

Titus ambled into the kitchen in search of breakfast. An alien reek of powerful aftershave assailed his nostrils. The source of this proved to be a balding man sprawled over the kitchen table across from Signora Strega-Borgia. Papers and glossy brochures were spread out amongst coffee cups and breakfast detritus. Titus's mother was frowning as she scribbled numbers on the back of an envelope.

Boring, thought Titus, scanning the shelves in the fridge. Yeuch, he amended, discovering a promising paper bag to be full of yellowing Brussels sprouts.

“Look at it this way, Mrs. Sega-Porsche,” said the balding man, waving his coffee cup expansively. “It's like your dentist telling you that your teeth are fine but your gums have to come out. . . .”

“I'm not exactly sure that I understand,” muttered Signora Strega-Borgia, frowning even more deeply and looking up from her envelope.

“Your coffee's wonderful, by the way,” said Baldy, taking a slurp for emphasis, “best I've had for ages. . . . Anyway, your roof's fine. Great. Tip-top. Fantastic.”

“And?” sighed Signora Strega-Borgia.

Titus found what he was looking for and slipped it into his pajama pocket.

“Excuse me, Mr. Pile-Um,” said Signora Strega-Borgia.

“Pylum-Haight,” interjected the bald man.

“
Indeed
.” Signora Strega-Borgia's voice developed a marked windchill factor. “Excuse me. Titus, put that back.”

“Mu-ummm, just a wee drop.”

“Put it
back,
Titus. I'm in no mood for an argument.”

“But I want to see if it works,” pleaded Titus, adding somewhat cuttingly, “None of your other spells ever do. . . .”

Signora Strega-Borgia stood up, sending brochures cascading to the kitchen floor. Titus sighed and handed her a small glass vial. Signora Strega-Borgia sat down again and flashed her visitor a patently insincere smile as she placed the vial on the table in front of her.

Mr. Pylum-Haight could read the label on the side of the vial, magnified through the glass of the coffeepot.

Tincture of Ffup-tooth
to be diluted x 10
5 ml equivalent to 1 Battalion

Mentally logging this knowledge under Weird Things Clients Keep in Their Fridges, Mr. Pylum-Haight pressed on. “As I was saying, your roof is in great shape, but the beams supporting it . . .”—pause to suck in dramatic lungfuls of air—“rotten to the core, 'm'fraid. In fact, you're really lucky the whole thing hasn't collapsed on you, what with all the rain we've been having. . . .” Meeting Signora Strega-Borgia's steely glare, he faltered and took a deep draft of chilly coffee to sustain himself.

“So . . . Mr. Pylum-Haight . . . what exactly
are
we talking about?” Signora Strega-Borgia folded her calculation-laden envelope into a small parcel and pushed it to one side.

Titus sat at the other end of the kitchen table and waited. Now, he guessed, was not the time to raise the question of an increase in pocket money in line with inflation.

“A rough estimate—ballpark figure, off the top of my head, can't be too definite about this, not set in stone, but possibly in the region of, give or take a few . . . um . . .”

“
How much?
” insisted Signora Strega-Borgia.

Pylum-Haight hastily scribbled a figure on the back of a business card and stood up. “Have a wee think,” he advised. “It's a big job. Expensive business keeping on top of these old houses. I know several clients who would be willing to take it off your hands. Get yourself something more manageable. More modern. Maybe your husband might like to give me a ring to discuss . . .” His voice trailed off as he busied himself with folding and packing the tableful of brochures and papers back into his crocodile-skin attaché case. “Nice to . . . um . . . Thanks for the . . . er . . . We'll be in touch,” he muttered, sidling in the direction of the kitchen door. “See myself out . . . um . . . Thanks again.” And he tiptoed backward out into the corridor, leaving a trail of aftershave behind him.

Titus listened to the sound of footsteps fade into silence. The front door creaked open and, seconds later, slammed shut. Over the faint ticking of the kitchen clock came the sound of a car engine, a crunch of gravel under tires, and the valedictory honk as Tock the moat-guarding crocodile bid the parting guest farewell.

“Mum?”

“Not right now, Titus,” mumbled Signora Strega-Borgia, waving a hand absently around her head, as if to ward off a fly. She gazed at the business card in front of her as if it might be coated with plague bacteria. “I need to find your dad.” She reluctantly picked up the card and rose to her feet like a sleepwalker.

“He's upstairs mending my modem,” said Titus. “Mum—what's the matter? I'm sorry I made that comment about your spells. I didn't mean it.”

Signora Strega-Borgia turned, her face pale and drawn. “It's not your attack on my skills as a witch, Titus. No, it's nothing”—she glanced hastily at the card in her hand—“nothing that six hundred and eighty-six thousand, eight hundred and seventy-five pounds, seventy-two p plus VAT won't fix.”

The kitchen door closed behind her as Titus was left staring bleakly at the tabletop in front of him. Picking up a discarded brochure and his mother's pencil, he calculated that, at his current rate of pocket money, it would take him a mere three and a half millennia to acquire that kind of sum. The brochure showed a picture of an ideal family in front of their new home. There were a dog, a cat, a baby, and two grinning children flanked by their smiling parents. The new home behind them was built on a model that a five-year-old might draw: a front door, one window on each side, three windows above, and a perfect leak-free roof on top. The blurb read: “The Buccleuch family at home in Bogginview. Homes to depend on. Homes to raise your family in.
BOGGINVIEW
. Another quality build from
BELLA-VISTA DEVELOPMENTS INC
. . . .”

Not even remotely like
our
house, thought Titus. If they'd decided to make a brochure about StregaSchloss, we'd be scowling on the moth-eaten croquet lawn: “The Strega-Borgias at home with their dragon, their yeti, their griffin, and . . . oh, yes, their moat-guarding crocodile. Behind them, you can just see their modest little
STREGASCHLOSS
, which looks like a cross between a fairy castle and the film set for
Vlad the Vampire Falls on Hard Times
. . . .”

Titus threw the brochure back on the table and stalked out of the kitchen. And I just
bet
that the Buccleuch fridge is full of pizzas and chocolate fudge cake, instead of moldy Brussels sprouts, he decided, skirting an overflowing chamber pot on his way upstairs. No wonder they're grinning, he concluded.

Beasts in the Bedchamber

L
ife at StregaSchloss had its drawbacks. For a start, it was three miles to the nearest village, and when you finally cycled there, down rutted lanes and puddles that could have hidden a small submarine, you wondered why you'd bothered. Auchenlochtermuchty boasted three public bars, one hotel, four banks, one shop that called itself a hardware emporium, selling everything from hoof picks to garden forks, and one mini-market that never had what you needed but stocked heaps of things that you didn't.

No swimming pool, thought Titus, no cinema, no sweetshop. . . . Gloomily, he pushed open his bedroom door. The curtains were drawn and the room was in total darkness. Fumbling his way toward the window, Titus flung open the drapes and gazed out at the nearby sea-loch. Last night's snow was beginning to melt in the rain. A small cough from behind him alerted Titus to the fact that he was not alone. He spun round and shrieked, “What on earth d'you think you're playing at? Get out of there! Off my bed, you filthy beasts!”

From underneath Titus's duvet, the ancient eyes of Sab the griffin, Knot the yeti, and Ffup the teenage dragon regarded him with little interest. Plucking boredly at the pillow with a long black talon, Ffup addressed the wall: “Chill out, Titus,” he drawled.

“WHAAAT?” said Titus.

“The dungeon's flooded, which means we're allowed upstairs till it dries out, the kitchen has your mum and a perfumed Suit in it, the library fire's gone out, and this place seemed like a good idea. You're supposed to cherish us, right? We're the low-tech security system at StregaSchloss, remember? You got a problem with that?”

Confronted with the impossibility of forcibly evicting the three massive beasts, Titus backed down. “But my bed,” he moaned. “
Look
at it. It's all bent out of shape, and it's soaking.”

The beasts ignored him. Knot scratched vigorously in his clotted fur, causing the bed to quiver ominously beneath him.

“I'm
freezing,
” complained Sab. “My paws are like lumps of ice.”

“Consider them thawed.” Ffup sat up, drew back his massive head, and, with a giant snort, fired twin blasts of flame from his nostrils.

“NO! AAAARGH! MY BED!” wailed Titus.

“Whoops, silly me,” the dragon said, as the bedpost caught fire. “Knot, don't just lie there scratching;
do
something.”

Silently, the yeti stood up in bed and leaned toward the flaming bedpost. Stretching out his woolly wet arms, he engulfed the burning timber in a damp, hairy embrace. With a loud hiss, the fire went out. Titus's bedroom filled with the unappetizing smell of burnt, damp old dog. Downstairs, the front doorbell rang.

 

With the family car out of action, Pandora had retrieved her rusty bicycle from the depths of the potting shed and spent two days attempting to render it roadworthy. Bouncing down the rutted track to Auchenlochtermuchty in the rain had dampened her enthusiasm for shopping, and the combination of discovering that her bicycle had developed a flat tire and that the village shops were devoid of cosmetic cures for erupting pimples had done little to raise Pandora's spirits. By the time she had pushed her bicycle back to StregaSchloss, she was utterly fed up. She gazed unseeing at the familiar turrets reflected in the moat, and when Tock raised his scaly snout from its icy depths and gave his usual honk by way of hello, she barely responded. Leaning on the doorbell, she watched as Tock levered himself out of the water and waddled toward her, baring his many yellow teeth in a crocodile greeting. This kind of sociable behavior sent postmen and delivery boys running for cover, but Pandora knew the crocodile to be an ardent convert to vegetarianism, and she reached down to pat his head.

“What're you doing out of your moat? Honestly, sometimes I think we take our policy of cherishing our beasts too far. Other people make their crocodiles into handbags and shoes, while we extend them an unconditional welcome.” Pandora pressed the doorbell again and called through the letterbox, “Come on, open the door, I'm turning into a human icicle out here.”

“Nnnngbrrr,” agreed Tock, adding hopefully, “Hot bath? Steamy tiles? Fluffy towels?”

“Yes, but I'm not exactly sure that Mum would approve,” said Pandora. Besides, she decided, if anyone needed the hot bath and fluffy towels, it was her.

The front door opened and Tock bolted inside.

“Oh, not
another
one,” groaned Titus, stepping aside to let his sister in. “I just found Sab, Knot, and Ffup dripping all over my bed. Where does Tock think he's going?”

The sound of Schloss plumbing in full bath-pouring din drowned Pandora's reply.