Pure Dead Wicked (8 page)

Dodgy Santa

H
uddled in a forgotten corner of the attic at StregaSchloss, Tarantella shivered. “How
could
she? How COULD she?” she demanded, addressing the rafters. “Thoughtlessly, heartlessly abandoned. Forgotten. Overlooked. After all I've done for her, and her miserable family—the ungrateful bizzem of a biped.” Tarantella paused to stuff another desiccated fly into her underfilled Christmas stocking. “Where's my Christmas present? Where's my annual reward for being such a perfect pet? Where's Pandora?” The spider pouted in a fashion that would have given any self-respecting bluebottle nightmares, then added a deceased daddy longlegs to the stocking. “Not seen hide nor hair of her for three weeks. Not even a postcard. Faithless Pandora. Leaving me with uncultured heathens like rats for company. . . .”

The distant clatter of a diesel engine broke into Tarantella's thoughts and she paused, arrested in mid-rant. Closer now it came, negotiating the moat and pulling up in front of the deserted StregaSchloss. Tarantella instantly relented. “I take it all back. Better late than never. . . . I wonder what she's brought for me?”

Far below, van doors opened and slammed. Tarantella scampered to the cobwebby attic window and peered out through the snowflakes. “Dubious company she's keeping,” she observed, noting the four stocky men unloading ladders and ropes from the back of their van. Incorrectly assuming that Pandora was already inside the house, Tarantella leapt across the attic to stand in wait by the trapdoor. “Come on, come
on
,” she muttered impatiently.

Clanking and banging came from the scaffold wrapped round the outside of StregaSchloss, and muffled thuds and gruff voices filtered up from the hallway. “This way,” came a shout, followed by the sound of boots clattering on the stone stairs.

“It's a right pain in the backside, this. Christmas Eve, and here we are, working. What's the boss up to?”

“Don't know, mate. Just get the roof off, lose the slates in the loch, and no questions asked.”

Tarantella puzzled over this.
Get the roof off?
What was going on? The attic was quite cold enough, thank you, without taking the roof off. And
lose the slates in the loch?
That sounded a mite extravagant. . . . The spider crept behind an old cabin trunk and waited.

Seconds later, the trapdoor creaked open, and a silhouetted figure swept a flashlight round the attic. “Pass me your crowbar, Malky,” it said, hauling itself inelegantly into the attic, “and the wrecking bar and angle grinder.”

Thumps and crashes came from the roof above. Something's gone horribly wrong, Tarantella decided. This is definitely
not
Santa Claus on my roof, and by the sound of things, this isn't going to
be
my roof for much longer. . . . A distant series of shattering crashes confirmed her assumptions. Through the attic window, it appeared to be snowing slates. Hundreds of them, flying through the air and landing with a crash on the flagstones below. An arctic wind blew through centuries of cobwebs strung across the eaves, and snowflakes began to dust the attic floor. The wind picked Tarantella up and blew her across the floorboards. Oh, my word, she thought, woman the lifeboats, mayday, mayday, help, police. Then she looked up. She could see the night sky through the rafters now. It looked black and bleak and cheerless. Straddled across the pockmarked timbers, a man levered off slates with a crowbar and hurled them into space.

Tarantella ran across the attic floor and skidded to a stop at a disused chimney stack that ran the full height of StregaSchloss, from the attic down to the kitchen. Peering through a hole in the chimney breast, she tutted mildly. “Dear, dear. Lift's out of action.
Such
a nuisance. I suppose that means I'll have to use the stairs.”

With a backward glance at the rapidly vanishing roof, and using a flurry of snowflakes to camouflage her hasty exit, Tarantella headed for the trapdoor.

Getting Stuffed

C
hristmas Day dawned wet and sleety. Sensing that this day was extra special, Damp roused her parents from their champagne-drenched slumbers at five-thirty a.m. She dealt with the contents of her stocking in two seconds flat, and happily spent the next two hours trying to poke melting chocolate coins between the clamped lips of her parents.

In their shared room, Pandora and Mrs. McLachlan woke at a more civilized hour, bid each other a sleepy good morning, and rolled over to go back to sleep again. On the foot of their beds, lumpy stockings lay unopened.

Woken by Latch's extended sneezing and nose-blowing session, Titus pried his eyes open. Christmas! he thought, and then, remembering that he was too cool for such things, thought, Oh, yeah, Christmas. There was a large red stocking at the foot of his bed! Oh, yeah, the stocking. Titus scratched an armpit in a thoughtful fashion and tried to yawn insouciantly. Two seconds later, unable to restrain himself any longer, he somersaulted to the end of the bed, grabbed his stocking, and tipped it upside down on the floor.

Titus was simultaneously cramming chocolate reindeer down his throat and loading a brand-new copy of
Schlock-Horror IV
onto his laptop when Latch emerged sniffing from the bathroom, clutching a box of tissues since his seasonal cold was currently at its peak in terms of mucus production. Titus blinked. Latch was wearing a lounge suit that looked as if it had been salvaged from the wreck of the
Titanic
. Furthermore, he'd cut himself shaving, and a thin trail of blood was trickling down his chin. Briefly, the thought occurred to Titus that he could offer to dab Latch's chin, thus gaining a drop of the butler's blood for cloning purposes, but remembering his success of the night before, he decided that enough was enough. He wondered if Pandora had forgiven him yet. . . .

He didn't have to wonder for too long. Meeting his sibling on the way down to breakfast, he noticed that her left thumb was heavily bandaged.

“Aaargh! It's Psycho-Titus! Keep him
away
from me,” Pandora said, clutching Mrs. McLachlan for protection.

“What's she on about?” Titus attempted injured innocence.

“Last night, Titus. Remember? My poor thumb?” Pandora turned to explain to Mrs. McLachlan. “He appeared in my room, black cloak, fangs, full-on vampire, and sank his teeth into my hand. . . .”

“Pardon?” Titus looked blank. “I did
what
?”

“You bit me,” said Pandora. “Hard. You drew blood. So I had to hit you with the first thing that came to hand.”

“Which was?” Mrs. McLachlan frowned.

“What are you on about?” Titus interrupted. “I was in bed. All night. Asleep, not prowling round the hotel. You're blathering, Pan. Or dreaming. Either way, I think you need therapy.”

“So what's this, then?” Pandora waved her thumb in Titus's face. “Or that?” She grabbed her brother's hair, pulling back his bangs to expose a lump the size of a small egg. “Here, look. I did that. With my shoe.”

“I wondered where that lump came from. . . .” Titus absentmindedly rubbed his head, then looked up at his sister, as if the thought had just occurred to him. “Oh, heck—d'you think I bit you when I was sleepwalking?”

“That's quite
enough,
” interrupted Mrs. McLachlan in tones that brooked no dissent. “I'm ashamed of the pair of you. Biting and hitting. Any more of this nonsense and you can both go in the stable block with the beasts. Now. Not another word. Let us all go downstairs and have breakfast like civilized human beings, not little heathens.”

Over the muted strains of Christmas carols, the Strega-Borgia clan assembled in the dining room could hear the unmistakable din of crashing cutlery and clattering saucepans. Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell was not in a festive mood. The previous evening's wine tasting had left a bitter taste in her mouth, coupled with a thumping headache and an overweening desire to have her revenge on Signora Strega-Borgia. To make matters worse, in her three a.m. search for her infallible headache remedy, Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell had discovered that her crocodile-skin handbag had gone missing. Her temper, usually maintained at a temperature just below simmering point, boiled over.

“You must have seen it, you useless MORON!” she yelled at her husband. “I had it yesterday, in the kitchen. If you hadn't pickled what few remaining brain cells you possessed, you'd be able to remember where I left it. . . .”

Mortimer groaned. Seeking to deflect attention from himself, he picked on the most likely suspect. “Probably been nicked, old girl. Wouldn't put it past that ghastly Borgia chappie, what?”

The ghastly Borgia chappie buttered a round of toast and passed it to the equally ghastly Borgia crocodile. “Tock,” he said, attempting a stern manner, “would you happen to know anything about a missing crocodile-skin handbag?”

Tock's dripping spoonful of prunes halted in midair. The crocodile opened his eyes wide and approximated an expression of puzzled innocence. Beside him, Ffup blushed and Sab busied himself with the contents of the marmalade dish.

“It might improve the atmosphere in the hotel if you were to return it,” suggested Signor Strega-Borgia, adding, “Anonymously. That is, if you know where it is.”

Tock was about to deny all knowledge of the missing handbag when Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell stalked into the dining room. She looked every bit as ill as she felt.

Pandora's eyes rolled backward in her head as she beheld the proprietrix's ostrich-feather-trimmed cardigan, her leopard-skin leggings, and her calfskin boots. “I've suddenly lost my appetite,” she remarked, standing up.

“How
interesting,
” said Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell. “I've suddenly lost my handbag.”

Tock slid sideways off his chair and, followed by his fellow beasts, vanished in the direction of the gardens. Pandora and Titus headed upstairs to their bedrooms and Mrs. McLachlan and Latch made themselves scarce. Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell looked round the suddenly deserted dining room. “Was it something I said?” she asked, slipping into the empty chair beside Signora Strega-Borgia. “Are you going to join us for lunch today? Very traditional fare, I'm afraid. Roast goose and all the trimmings. Plum pudding—all those ghastly calories. . . . Luciano, you simply must have some of my special stuffing—it's absolutely
heavenly
. Not for us, dear,” she said, patting Signora Strega-Borgia conspiratorially on the arm. “Not if we need to watch our figures . . .”

Signora Strega-Borgia poured herself another cup of coffee, ostentatiously ladled four spoonfuls of sugar and a generous dollop of cream into it, and swallowed the lot in one elegant gulp. “I'd love to try your stuffing,
dear,
” she said sweetly, “since I don't have to watch my figure—I let Luciano do that for me.”

 

Comparisons are odious, but if asked to name her favorite present of that strange Christmas, Pandora would have nominated the tiny pot of cream given to her by Mrs. McLachlan. Compared to that tiny bejeweled tub of vanishing cream, all CDs, clothes, toys, and books paled into insignificance. Even Titus conceded that vanishing cream was seriously cool after Pandora had demonstrated its miraculous powers during a Brussels sprout episode at lunchtime.

“Just eat them, darling,” advised Signora Strega-Borgia, “and then we'll have pudding.”

“Frankly, I'd rather die,” muttered Titus, glaring at the little mushy green cannonballs clustered round the rim of his plate.

“TITUS!”

Titus looked up from his plate. His father was glaring at him, but given that Signor Strega-Borgia had held his face muscles in the Grimace Position throughout the starter (prawns Marie-Rose), the soup (broccoli and Stilton), and the sorbet (avocado and lime), the effect of his glare was somewhat diluted.

“Titus,” Pandora hissed, “cause a distraction and I'll make your sprouts disappear.”

Titus didn't need to be asked twice. He reached out for the gravy boat and skillfully toppled a teetering arrangement of fir cones and fruit that the management had provided to grace each table in the dining room. “Ooops. Sorry,” Titus mumbled, joining in the under-the-table scrum to catch tumbling apples, pomegranates, and fir cones that cascaded from their table. When the family reseated themselves to continue their meal, Titus saw that Pandora had been as good as her word. “
Wicked,
” he whispered, attacking the rest of his meal with renewed relish.

Much later, bloated and bilious, all the guests and staff collapsed on sofas in the residents' lounge to attempt to cram in mince pies and postprandial drinks before their stomachs finally exploded. Titus took this opportunity to disappear in search of an incubator. Since the previous evening he'd been in possession of the blood, the infrared facility, and, in a moment of inspiration, had realized that his mother's Knot-regurgitated ectoplasm would provide the perfect growth medium for his diy-clones. All he needed now was an incubator. . . .

He had a pretty good idea where to find one. Over lunch, he'd overheard a most promising conversation between Latch and Mrs. McLachlan, who, along with the rest of the family, had avoided the roast goose completely.

“I don't think that has been properly cooked,” Mrs. McLachlan said under her breath as she passed the platter to Latch without taking any for herself. Latch observed the pink slabs of meat studded with congealed goose fat and, with a shudder, passed the plate onward to Tock.

“I'll pass,” the crocodile decided. “Raw goose for you, Ffup?”

“It's a breeding ground for all sorts of bacteria,” Mrs. McLachlan advised, passing a tureen of roast potatoes on to Latch.

“Heavens knows what horrors are growing in it,” agreed the butler, spooning a consolatory half-dozen potatoes onto his plate.

With this in mind, Titus headed for the kitchen and, some minutes later, crept across the reception area on his way upstairs, carrying a large china platter on which lay the carcass of the goose. He discovered that it was still warm when he stuffed the cavity beneath the bird's rib cage with ectoplasm. Being ectoplasm, it slithered and flopped, disobeying the rules of gravity, oozing from between the ribs, with some of it vaporizing in a misty swirl over the china platter.

Titus had to admit that this was one of the most unpleasant tasks he'd ever undertaken in the name of scientific discovery. It was about to get worse. Pushing the handkerchief stained with Pandora's blood into the congealing warmth of the ectoplasm-stuffed goose made his stomach lurch sickeningly into his throat. And when Titus stabbed himself in the finger with his mother's brooch pin and caught sight of his own blood, he had to lie down immediately. Overhead, the room spun slowly round and, just to put the lid on his discomfort, the smell of clotting goose fat clung to his hair, his clothes, his—Titus bolted for the bathroom and was noisily and copiously sick.

Ten minutes later, pale and wobbly, he was ready to achieve his goal. The goose was balanced on top of the radiator to keep it warm. His laptop hummed quietly, its infrared port pointed directly at the goose's vent, and the bloodstained ectoplasm bubbled and heaved nicely within. On the laptop screen, a menu appeared:

“Yessss!” Titus hissed. “Yes, yes, yes, YES!”

“I thought I heard you in here,” said a voice. “Phwoaaarr—what's that sme—? TITUS? What on earth are you doing with that
goose
?”

Titus turned. Pandora stood in the open doorway, her face pale, her eyes saucerlike in total incomprehension. Unnoticed, Damp wobbled across the carpet toward the radiator. She, too, was somewhat puzzled by the reappearance of the lunchtime goose, but she put that mystery to one side when she caught sight of Titus's laptop. It glowed invitingly, cursor a-blink, the background music of the diy-clones program drawing Damp in closer.