“Supper,” said Marcia. “And about time too.”
3
KNOCK, KNOCK …
DomDaniel and Simon were standing on the wide doorstep of what had once been a typical Port townhouse: tall and narrow with a large front door. This particular house looked as though it were about to fall down. The windows had planks nailed across them and there were Darke symbols painted on the wall over which had been scrawled some very rude graffiti. It was, thought Simon, just the kind of place he would expect DomDaniel to visit.
“Toad, Heap,” snapped DomDaniel.
“But—” Simon began defensively, thinking that DomDaniel was insulting him.
“The toad. In the toad bag, noodlebrain.”
When DomDaniel spoke, his lips did not move in quite the right way. It was odd, Simon thought, like being with a bad ventriloquist. Simon suppressed the uncomfortable idea that that probably made him the ventriloquist’s dummy. He plunged his hand into the toad bag, scrabbled past the arm bones and at the bottom of the bag his fingers found a damp, squashy lump. The toad, covered in bone dust, sat on Simon’s hand, blinking in the shock of the cold night air.
DomDaniel chuckled. “Fat and ugly,” he said. “They’ll love it.”
Simon grimaced. Try as he might, he could not see the attraction of toads.
“I’ll give you a piece of advice, Heap,” DomDaniel said confidentially. “Give a witch a Darke Toad and she will do anything you ask. If a Coven has one of these on their door, they’ll get respect from every Coven in the land. No witch will dare to mess with them. Well, go on then, Heap. Place the toad.”
Simon looked confused. “Where?”
DomDaniel looked exasperated. “On the door, cabbage brain.”
Simon stared at the door. It was bristling with nails like a hedgehog and showed signs of having been attacked with a hammer. But among the forest of nails Simon spotted a small plinth just below a plain, flat doorknocker, and above the plinth someone had scrawled: TOADYWOADY. He reached up and carefully placed the toad on the plinth. To Simon’s surprise the toad did not stay there. It hopped off and landed neatly onto the doorknocker where it settled down onto what Simon now realized was a toad-shaped surface. A Darke ripple passed across the toad and it Transformed into a toad-shaped doorknocker.
“Good,” said DomDaniel. “If a Darke Toad knocks, the Coven has to answer. Well, go on, then.”
“What?”
“Knock, you fool.”
Simon raised his hand to the cold metal toad, but before he could do anything, there was a tremendous thudding of footsteps inside the house, and the door was thrown wide open. Simon leaped to one side just in time and out burst a disheveled young man with piercing blue eyes, dressed in black. He pushed DomDaniel aside in a fine football tackle and hurtled down the street as though in pursuit of the ball. DomDaniel swayed dangerously, and Simon heard the bones clink ominously against one another beneath the cloak.
Ter-link-clink-plink.
DomDaniel was just regaining his balance when another figure in black—female this time—came pounding out of the door yelling, “Madrigor! Madrigor! Wait. Please wait. Pleeeeeeese!”
She too elbowed DomDaniel aside in as fine a tackle as her quarry had done, and it caught DomDaniel on the rebound. With a loud clinkle-clank his bones folded up and descended into an orderly pile on the doorstep, on which his cloak settled like a cover over a birdcage. Simon watched as DomDaniel’s head dropped neatly down onto the top of the pile. The head stared angrily up at Simon as though it were all his fault. Simon could do no more than return the stare in amazement, while he tried to fight the desire to pick up the head and run with it and join in the football game that seemed to be in full swing farther down the street—accompanied now by shrieks and a few well-aimed punches from the female protagonist.
A moment later a white-faced woman swathed in black—teetering on shoes from the soles of which sprouted a forest of spikes twelve inches high—arrived at the door. The woman stared at Simon and gave a gruesome smile, showing a few stubby black teeth. She turned around and yelled into the house, “Veronica! Dorinda! Daphne! Look what we’ve got here!” Then she leered at Simon. “Hello young man, young man.”
Simon felt horribly uncomfortable. Three young witches arrived at the door. “Ooh, Witch Mother.” They giggled, staring at him. “Where did you get that?”
Simon felt himself turning pink.
“He’s blushing,” said one of the witches, who had a conical peak of hair balanced on the top of her head.
“So sweet,” added the small, chubby one.
The third witch said nothing and stared at Simon with disconcertingly big blue eyes.
The Witch Mother leaned forward to inspect Simon at close quarters. Hastily, he stepped back from the old-cat breath. The Witch Mother went to take another step forward but a sudden screech came from somewhere near her left boot—the sharp spikes of which DomDaniel had a distressingly close view.
“Pamela!” shrieked DomDaniel’s head. “Stop!”
The woman stared down at her feet and swore loudly.
“No need for that kind of language,” DomDaniel said primly.
The Witch Mother stared with incredulity at DomDaniel’s head, so neatly placed on its cloak. Her shoulders began to shake, and suddenly the thick white makeup that was plastered over her face split into a tracery of cracks and she burst into hoarse, barking laughs. “Dommie, is that you?” she spluttered.
“Yes, as it happens, it is me,” said DomDaniel. “I don’t see what is so funny, Pamela.”
“You never did have a sense of humor, did you?” the Witch Mother observed. “So, are you coming in or what?”
“At present, Pamela, I am somewhat immobile. However, my assistant here—when he stops gawping like a stuck fish—will assist me. Pick me up, will you, Heap?”
Simon stared at the fleshy head sitting atop its pile of bones. He suppressed a shudder. “Oh! Well, yes. Um …”
Unexpectedly, the Witch Mother came to Simon’s rescue. “Leave him,” she commanded and turned to the young witch with the big blue eyes. “Dorinda! Wheelbarrow!”
“Yes, Witch Mother,” said Dorinda, and she disappeared back into the house.
“No!” yelled DomDaniel’s head.
The Witch Mother looked down and favored DomDaniel with a black-toothed smile. “I suppose you’re a pile of bones under that fancy cloak of yours?”
DomDaniel scowled in answer.
The Witch Mother’s smile grew even wider and blacker. “I thought so. Well, we don’t want them dropped, do we? A wheelbarrow it must be.”
“Pamela, you are a cruel woman.”
“But a practical one, Dommie, dear.”
And so it was that DomDaniel was ignominiously wheeled over the threshold of the Port Witch Coven in a wheelbarrow—just as the Witch Mother, in a fit of fury with DomDaniel over one broken promise too many, had once foretold. Simon, however, was escorted in style, with a young witch on each arm.
4
WHO’S THERE?
There was a very peculiar smell in the kitchen of the Port Witch Coven. Simon sat on a small greasy sofa, squashed uncomfortably between Veronica—the witch with the cone of hair on top of her head—and Daphne, the small, chubby one. To take his mind off how uncomfortably close they were—and what knobby elbows Veronica had—Simon tried to work out what the weird smell was. Soon, as his eyes grew accustomed to the murky darkness—which was illuminated only by the fire in the stove—he realized what it was. Cats. Countless pairs of blank yellow eyes, glinting in the glow from the flames, were staring at him.
Simon felt edgy. He was wedged so tightly between the witches that he could hardly breathe. It was just his luck, he thought, that the nice witch who had fetched the wheelbarrow was not sitting next to him. She was busy stirring a dirty old pot on the stove, from which came another peculiar smell—Witches’ Brew. Every now and then she glanced around at Simon and smiled shyly at him, and Simon s
miled back. But even Dorinda’s smiles did not stop Simon from longing to jump up and run out of the fug, into the clean night air of the Port. However, he knew better than to leave his master, who was piled on the kitchen table with his head placed at a jaunty angle by Dorinda.
DomDaniel was looking at the Witch Mother, who seemed, Simon thought, to have a score to settle. “What did I tell you, Dommie?” the Witch Mother crowed. “I said you’d come to no good in the end. I told you the next time you came to see me it would be in a wheelbarrow.”
“Oh, give it a rest, Pamela,” DomDaniel snapped. “Anyway, things are perfectly fine. I am regrouping. Reassessing. Recharging. That Overstrand woman—she’ll be sorry. I have plans. Rather clever ones, actually. I will soon be back with a vengeance. Won’t I, Heap?”
“Yes,” Simon said obediently, though right then he thought it seemed highly unlikely.
DomDaniel stared at up the Witch Mother. “To that end, Pamela, I need a little assistance.”
The Witch Mother gave a snort of amusement. “A little!”
“Ahem. With a Clothing Bones Spell. Difficult to do it for oneself.”
The Witch Mother leaned down, put her elbows on the table and stared eye to eye with DomDaniel’s head. Simon saw the head wince at the onslaught of cat breath. “Well, now, who would have thought it—you asking me a favor?” the Witch Mother said with a stubby-toothed smile.
DomDaniel looked very uncomfortable. “You won’t regret it, Pamela. You get me back on my feet so that I can sort out old Nastier Overstrand for keeps, and I will let you keep the Darke Toad, which is, at this very moment, sitting on your door.”
“The Darke Toad? For keeps?”
“For keeps, in exchange for a top-of-the-range, permanent Clothing Bones. I need one that lasts even without the bones—after they have been, let us say, Placed elsewhere. Can the Coven do that, Pamela?”
The Witch Mother frowned. What DomDaniel was asking for was a very difficult and complex Darke Spell, and she wasn’t sure that the Coven could do it—especially the bit about lasting without the bones. What, she wondered, was the old goat planning? But a Darke Toad was a huge status symbol—a sign to any passing witch or warlock that beyond the door lay serious Darke Magyk. The Witch Mother made a decision: The Coven could manage something, and once the Darke Toad was theirs, what did she care about DomDaniel’s boring old bones?
“Yes,” she said. “We can do that. No problem.”
Crash! The sound of the front door crashing open, then slamming shut, shook the kitchen floor and far, far beneath it, Simon thought he felt something stir. A heavy pounding of footsteps came toward the kitchen and the door burst open. Bang! The fifth witch, Linda, rushed in. Her dark blue eyes glowed in the gloom and her long, shiny black nails flashed like claws. Linda looked furious. Simon saw Dorinda cower in fear, and beside him Daphne and Veronica went tense.
“Ear-flapping, nosy cow!” Linda yelled at Dorinda.
Dorinda dropped the wooden spoon and, like a rabbit caught in a flashlight, she watched, terrified, as Linda set a course for her, kicking her way through the rubbish-strewn floor.
Linda reached her victim and poked her in the ribs. “Madrigor has gone,” she said. “And he is not coming back. Ever. And it is all your fault, you nasty little earwig, you filthy string of nose slime, you—”
“Now, now, Linda,” said the Witch Mother. “Language.”
“I’ll give her language,” snarled Linda. “Earwigging at my door. Listening to every word we said. And then giggling.”
Dorinda gave a whimper and hid her face in her hands. “I didn’t mean to,” she said.
“Yes, you did, you lying little weasel. You listen at all our doors; don’t think I don’t know.”
“Does she really?” asked the Witch Mother, looking worried.
“Yes, she does. You’d be amazed at the secrets those delicate little ears have heard.”
“Oh dear,” muttered the Witch Mother.
Linda reached out and tweaked one of Dorinda’s ears. Dorinda squealed. Linda leaned closer and breathed the special kind of Linda mouse breath all over the terrified witch. “Never mind, Dorinda. I’m going to do you a favor.”
Relief flooded across Dorinda’s face. “Oh, Linda, are you?”
Simon sighed. Dorinda must be very silly, he thought—anyone else could see that Linda was planning something very nasty indeed. On either side of him, Veronica and Daphne were watching, enthralled.
“What are you going to do, Linda?” they asked in unison.
“Well, seeing as how Dorinda loves to go flapping her ears around the place, I’m going to give her some ears she can really flap.”
Dorinda began to look worried.
Quick as lightning, Linda grabbed hold of Dorinda’s ears, her nails digging in viciously. Dorinda whimpered in pain. “I’d keep still if I were you,” Linda hissed. “Because I am going to Bestow upon you the finest pair ever of …”
“Yes, yes?” chorused Daphne, Veronica and the Witch Mother.
“Elephant ears!”
Dorinda screamed so loudly that Simon stuffed his fingers in his own (thankfully human) ears and closed his eyes. When the smoke cleared and the smell of burning flesh subsided into the comparatively pleasant odor of cat poo, Simon opened his eyes just in time to see Dorinda flee sobbing, her huge, gray African elephant ears flapping wildly as she hurtled from the kitchen, pursued by gales of raucous laughter. Simon felt sorry for the young witch; he knew that a Bestow was a permanent spell, and for the rest of her life Dorinda would have to live with a pair of elephant ears sprouting from her head. The fact that they looked so comical and that Simon had trouble not joining in the laughter somehow made it even worse.
The laughter subsided and the Witch Mother turned her attention to DomDaniel. The elephant ears had put her in an extremely good mood. It had also shown her that Linda was a force to be reckoned with.
“Linda, dear,” she said obsequiously, “I do hope it would not be too much trouble for you to assist us in a Clothing Bones Spell?”
Linda smiled. “With pleasure, Witch Mother.” She looked down at DomDaniel, who was beginning to relax. “Is this old tramp here for us to practice on?”
DomDaniel frowned but said nothing. He was so near to getting what he wanted, he did not want to jeopardize anything.
The Witch Mother giggled—not a pleasant sound. “Oh, Linda, you are so very amusing. Oh, ha ha. So droll. This, of course, is none other than DomDaniel.”
Linda looked shocked. “Really?” She bent down and stared at DomDaniel’s head. “Gosh,” she whispered. She waggled her fingers in what Simon supposed was a wave and trilled, “Hello, Mr. Daniel. I’ve always wanted to meet you.”
“Oh, get on with it!” said DomDaniel, who had reached his limits of patience.
“Very well,” said the Witch Mother. “Let it begin.”
5
BLOOD
A chill fell in the fuggy kitchen and the hairs on the back of Simon’s neck prickled. The Witch Mother signaled to Daphne and Veronica and they struggled out of the sofa, elbowing Simon in the ribs as they got up to join her and Linda. The four witches linked hands and stood around the table. Suddenly the Witch Mother broke the circle and stared at Simon.
“What now?” DomDaniel asked grumpily.
“Him.” The Witch Mother nodded her head toward Simon. “Your acolyte. Is he safe?”
“Oh, Heap.” DomDaniel sounded dismissive. “Don’t bother about him.”
Simon was not sure how to take this, but he told himself it was good that he was presumably considered “safe.” He sank back into the sticky sofa and tried to ignore the sharp points of the springs poking into him.
The witches rejoined hands and began an intense, achingly high-pitched humming, which found its way right into the middle of Simon’s head and sent pains stabbing through his back teeth. He longed to stuff his fingers into his ears once more, but he did not dare.
The humming g
rew louder and more intense until—at the very moment that Simon thought he would scream at the needle that was surely being driven into his ears—it stopped. Dead. A heavy silence fell and Simon began to sense the presence of something cold descending upon the kitchen.
Suddenly there was a hiss, a scuffle among the rubbish at Simon’s feet and a loud yowl. A pile of cats had started a fight.
The Witch Mother turned to Simon as if it was his fault. “Shh!” she hissed.
Simon spread his arms as if to say, It’s nothing to do with me, and the Witch Mother glared at him. “Stop them at once,” she ordered.
Simon knew better than to ignore the Witch Mother. He got up and steeled himself to scrabble through the mixture of old papers, vegetable peelings and bits of filthy blankets, which were heaving with cats scrapping and batting at one another with increasing ferocity. Simon managed to grab hold of one by the scruff of the neck. There was an ear-splitting yowl and then a scream. Simon leaped to his feet with a small yellow cat dangling from his hand, its teeth firmly sunk into the flesh below his little finger.
“Argh!” yelled Simon, frantically shaking his hand, trying to get the cat off. The cat swung wildly to and fro and with every swing its teeth sank in deeper. Simon began to panic.
“Tiddles!” yelled the Witch Mother. She stamped across to Simon, the spikes on her shoes spearing an assortment of potato peelings as she went, and came so close to Simon that he could see her angry red face below the cracks in her thick white makeup.