Carry On (45 page)

All right. It's all right.

I'm afraid—but that's reasonable. You try going back to the place where you were kept in a coffin until you couldn't remember what light looked like.

But I'm in a better position than I was last time. I'm conscious, for one. I have my wand. And my wits about me.

The door to the numpties' lair is easy to find—it's basically just a hole in the pilings. I slide down some mud, and my stomach churns at the smell. Wet paper and decay. I'm in the right place.

It's too dark down here even for me to see, so I hold my hand and start a fire in my palm, illuminating a circle of nothing around me.

I let the flames grow larger … and see a lot more nothing. I'm in a chamber full of debris. Hunks of pavement. Large stones. None of it's familiar; I was unconscious when I was brought here and mostly unconscious when I left. I don't even really know what the numpties look like.

I clear my throat. Nothing happens.

I clear it again. “My name is Basilton Pitch,” I call out loudly. “I'm here to ask you a question.”

One of the big rocky things starts to tremble. I hold the fire in its direction. And my wand.

The big rocky thing opens like a Transformer into a bigger rocky thing that seems to be wearing a giant oatmeal-coloured jumper.
“You,”
it rumbles in a voice like roadworks.

It's a familiar rumble. I feel the walls closing in on me, and my mouth tastes like stale blood. (Blood's thicker when it stales; it clots.)

“You,”
the thing says.
“You killed some of us.”

“Well, you kidnapped me,” I say. “Remember?”

“Didn't kill you,”
it says. There are more of the things now,
ca-runch
ing around me. I don't see where they're coming from, but there does seem to be less debris lying around. I try to make out their faces—everything about them is yellow-grey on yellow-grey. They're like piles of wet cement.

“You were well on your way to killing me,” I say, “but that's not why I'm here. I came to talk to you.”

I'm surrounded by them now. It's like standing inside a stone circle.

“Don't like talk,”
one rattles out. It might be the one in the jumper again. Or it might be this one, right next to me, wearing an electric blanket, the plug dragging behind it on the ground.

“Too cold to talk,”
another growls.
“Time to rest.”

That's right, I forgot. Numpties hibernate. I must have woken them. “You can rest,” I say. “I'll leave you. Just tell me this one thing.…”

They rumble to themselves.

“Who sent you after me?”

The numpties don't answer. I feel like they're moving closer to me, even though I can't see it happening.

“Who sent you to take me?” I shout. I'm holding my wand in the air, my arm coiled back behind my shoulder. Maybe I should already be casting spells at this point, but killing them won't bring me answers. And what if they fight back?

Are they already fighting back?

It suddenly feels like I'm squeezing between stone walls. They're closing in on me, pinching around my left arm … around the fire in my hand …
the fire.

“If you crush me,” I yell, “my fire will go out!”

The crunching stops; I think they're standing still. They seem to settle in sloppy slabs around me, around my hand. How long do they think I can stand like this? (And why don't they just move somewhere tropical?)

“Tell me,” I order. “Who sent you to take me?”

“Won't say,”
one of them answers. It's like listening to rocks being broken into gravel.

“Why not?”

The wall behind me lurches closer.
“Told us not to.”

I stand straighter. “Well, I'm telling you otherwise.”

“Kept us warm,”
the biggest one says.

“You don't look warm.”

“Kept us warm for a while,”
it says.

“Told us not to talk,”
grumbles another.

“Don't like talk.”

I let the fire in my hand go out, and they make a noise like ten thousand teeth grinding.

“More fire,”
I hear.
“More firrrre.”

“I'll give you more fire when you answer my question!” They're vibrating. I'm not sure whether it's from anger or impatience or something else. “Who sent you? Who paid you to take me?”

“Warmed us,”
I hear.

“Who?”

“One of you.”

“Magic ones.”

“Which one of us? Was it a man? What did he look like?”

“Like a man. Soft.”

“Warm.”

“Wet spot on the pavement.”

“Green.”

“Green?” I say.

The largest numpty unfolds, then crunches down into a pile right in front of me, forcing the others away.
“Your headstone!”

“One of you.”

“Warm.”

“Take the vampire brat,”
the big one grinds, “
keep him in the dark, give him blood.”

“Hold him till the cold comes and stays.”

“Fire. Warm. You promised.”

They're pressing closer again.
“You promised.”

I restart the fire in my hand, but instead of backing off, they crush closer to it; I can't even see my wrist.

“Get back!” I yell. My left arm is sucking away from my shoulder, and my wand arm is pressed up against my ear.
“Back off!”

“Cast
Paper beats rock,
” someone shouts. Not a numpty—a man!

“What?!”

“
Paper beats rock
—do it.”

I call out,
“Paper beats rock!”
And then a specific kind of chaos erupts:

There's someone hopping on top of the numpties, slapping them with sheets of newspaper like he's playing whack-a-mole. They try to heave away, but when he thumps them, they go still. Actually still. The pressure around me stops.

I look up and see none other than Nicodemus himself standing on top of the biggest numpty, catching his breath.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask him, my mouth surely hanging open.

He sneers. “I came to save you from numpties.”

“Did you just put them to sleep with
The Guardian
?”

“I did. Why didn't you?”

Nicodemus is wearing a cheap blazer over a white T-shirt, black jeans with a wallet chain, and ancient steel-toed Doc Martens. It's clear what my ridiculous aunt saw in him.

He reaches down and takes my wrist, pointing my wand at the rock wall that's trapping my other arm.
“Have a break, have a Kit-Kat,”
he says.

“What?”

“Say it.”

“Why?”

He pinches my wrist.

“Have a break, have a Kit-Kat!”
I cast, and the rock crumbles around my arms. “That shouldn't work,” I say, shaking my hand free.

The numpties don't wake up, despite me breaking pieces off them.

“Stop complaining,” Nicodemus says, “and come on. The newspapers won't hold them forever.”

He's holding out his arm, so I take it, even though he smells like sour blood and cider. He hauls me up until I'm standing on the numpties, too.

We hop from one to the next, then onto the ground. “This way,” Nicodemus says, switching on a big flashlight.

I follow him up the mud pathway and out into the daylight. As soon as we're above ground, I push him away from me.

“Watch it,” he says. “I just saved your life!”

“You just ruined my plan—they were about to tell me who kidnapped me!”

“They already told you,” he snarls. “It was the Mage!”

The Mage. The green man. The headstone.
The Mage?

Nicodemus curls his lip, so I can see his missing eyeteeth. “It was the Mage who had you kidnapped,” he says. He keeps moving forward, and I keep stepping back. “And the Mage who let the vampires into Watford.”

“What?” I stumble in the snow, and catch myself.

“He made a deal with them,” Nicodemus says, inches from my face. “If they attacked Watford and gave everyone a good scare, he'd let them live in London, unbothered. He wanted me to make the deal, but I wouldn't, so he found someone else.”

“The Mage sent vampires to kill my mother?”

“I tried to warn her, but she wouldn't believe Merlin's oath coming from me.” Nicodemus shrugs. “For what it's worth, I don't think the Mage meant for your mum to die—but I don't think he minded much. Made everything else easier, didn't it?”

I take another step back. “Why are you telling me this now? Why not before? And why are you even here—did you follow me?” I whip my head around, looking for more vampires. Is this a trap?

“I couldn't tell you,” Nicodemus says. “He would have killed me! But now it doesn't matter what he does. He went and arrested my sister, didn't he? Your Mage. He's got Ebeneza now. And I need your help getting her back.”

It was the Mage. It was the Mage all along.

I mean, I always thought it was him, but I never really
thought
it was
him.
How could he? He's
the Mage.
How could he just—?

I make a noise like Snow, a growl that starts in my stomach and triggers my fangs. Then I turn and run for my car.

Nicodemus runs after me. He grabs my arm. “Wait! I'm coming with you!”

“You're not coming with me.”

“I told you—he has my sister!”

“What do I care?”

“I'm going to help you fight.”

“I don't want your help, you monster.”

“Too bad,” he says, yanking me. “You'll have it!”

We're interrupted by desperate yelping: A Normal is out walking his dog, a cross-eyed Cavalier spaniel, and it's taken an interest in Nicodemus and me, barking madly.

“Come along, Della.” The Normal pulls on her chain, and the dog nearly chokes herself jumping at us.
Bark, bark, bark.

I could swear it's saying,
“Baz! Baz! Baz!”

I turn away from Nicodemus and look more closely at the spaniel. “Are you saying my name?”

“Baz!” the dog barks. “Thank magic! It's me, Penelope!”

“Bunce?” It does sound like her. In a yelpy, canine way. “Who turned you into a dog?”

“Am I a dog?” she yaps. “The spell's never worked that way before. Baz, you have to come get me!” The Normal is leaning over to pick up his dog, as if I'm a threat to her.

I am. I grab the dog and hold it up to my face.

“Hey, now,” the Normal says. Nicodemus hisses at him, and the man lets go of the dog's chain.

“Bunce, what are you talking about?”

“Baz, we can't let Simon face the Mage alone—I have a really bad feeling about it. I need you to come get me!”

Simon. Alone with the Mage. With my mother's murderer.

“I'm coming.” I shove the animal under my arm and look up at the Normal. “I need to borrow your dog.”

“You can't just—”

I hold up my wand.
“There's nothing to see here!”
The Normal looks at us, then down at his hands, then gets a cigarette out of his pocket.

I start running towards my car.

Nicodemus is right behind me. “I'm coming with you!”

I keep running. He grabs at my arm again, and I whirl around, starting a fire in that palm. He jumps back.

The Bunce spaniel yelps at him.

“I have to save my sister,” he says. “And you could use my help. You know I can't get in on my own.”

I tilt up my chin. “I
could
use your help. And if what you're saying is true, Ebb certainly could. But I'll be damned to hell twice over before I let a vampire into Watford. Even a gelded one.”

 

77

AGATHA

“Oh, thank magic,” Mum says. She's standing in my doorway in her dressing gown.

I lift my head up from my pillow. “What?” I fell asleep in my clothes, on top of the blankets. I don't know what time it is.

“Mitali Bunce just called. Simon and Penelope have run off to who knows where, and I thought you might be with them.”

“No—they've run off?”

“She hopes they've just run off, that they weren't taken.” Mum's voice breaks. “After last night.”

“Mum, what's wrong?”

“There's been another attack,” she says. “That horrible Humdrum—he attacked the
Pitches.
Ate everything. It's such a shame. It was the grandest estate in magic.”

“But Simon—,” I say.

“What dear? Did he tell you something?”

*   *   *

They've gone to find the numpties. I'm sure of it. It's exactly the sort of thing they'd do. Run off to confront a pack of ogres without talking to their parents or asking for help …

I think about telling my mother. That Simon was at the Pitches' last night. That he and Penny—and
Basilton Grimm-Pitch
—were plotting together.

But Mum would just ask why I hadn't told her sooner.

And then I think she'd tell me to keep my mouth shut. That no good could come of getting involved now, with the whole World of Mages on the brink of war, or possibly over it.

My dad's at an emergency Coven meeting, Mum says. And the Mage is holed up in his tower, communing with the stars or something.

I can tell she's relieved that I'm not with Simon and Penny, but also weirdly concerned. “Agatha, is everything, you know, tickety-boo with Simon?”