Hellforged
Page 37I opened the book to where I thought I’d left off last time, where I’d gotten a brief flash of meaning about the three tests. Almost immediately, the question I’d seen then appeared in my mind: And shall thrice-tested Victory be conquered?
No, I thought. She shall not. Not by Pryce, not by his stupid tests, and not by some bogus prophecy. Next question.
For several minutes, though, that question was all that the book offered. Then, like a blurry movie slowly coming into focus, two more sentences emerged. First, the carrion-eater consumes living flesh. Second, a battle in the world between the worlds.
I stared at the page until a headache clamped my temples, but that was all the book would give me. I closed the cover and sat back to think about what it might mean.
First, the carrion-eater consumes living flesh. Okay, in test number one the Morfran snacked on something other than its usual din-din—that would be me. But what did the next sentence mean? Second, a battle in the world between the worlds. I knew of only two worlds: the demon plane and the human plane, what Pryce called Uffern and the Ordinary. What was between them? My dreamscape? Difethwr used that as a bridge between the realms. But the Hellion said Uffern had expanded, claiming my dreamscape within its territory. The prophecy didn’t make sense.
Not that I expected crystal clarity, but still.
“Don’t try to figure it out,” Mab said when I asked her about it later. “If you grasp at a meaning, you’re likely to latch onto the wrong one. Just hold the sentence lightly in your mind, and be ready for anything.”
Great. So the book would drop me clues, but if I tried to understand them, I’d be wrong. And Pryce’s next attack could jump out at me any time, any place. Helpful, really helpful. I might as well choose random words from the dictionary and string them together into “prophecies.”
“Now, look at this,” Mab said, like she was addressing an overexcited toddler. “See what I’ve brought you from the village.”
She handed me a white tissue paper-wrapped rectangle. Inside was a plaque, about six inches wide by eight inches high. Hand painted, with flowers and a curlicued border and the words HOME SWEET HOME, it looked like something that would hang in a grandmother’s gingham-curtained kitchen, right next to the cross-stitch sampler of a girl in an oversized bonnet watering sunflowers.
“Um … thanks?”
“Look closely. What do you notice?”
“It’s made of slate.”
“Very good. I commissioned it from Mrs. Hughes; she’s a highly accomplished witch who lives in the village. The plaque is magically enhanced to hold many, many times the amount of Morfran a slate of this size could normally contain. Everything that looks like decoration, such as these yarrow flowers and the symbols in the border, serves a magical purpose.”
A portable Morfran prison. Cool.
“Well, everything but the inscription,” she went on. “Home Sweet Home was my idea.” The corners of her mouth twitched. It was the closest my aunt had ever come to making a joke.
“My other purchase,” she said, digging in her shopping bag, “was also custom-made. It’s something you’ll see an immediate use for, I think.” She handed me a leather ankle sheath. It had an extra strap at the top, which curved over the hilt and snapped into the main part of the sheath, holding the knife in place. Not very useful for a quick draw in a fight, but perfect for hanging on to an athame that tried to run away every chance it got.
“I want you to wear that sheath, with Hellforged inside, as often as possible. Keeping the athame close against your body will align it with your vibration.”
That sounded like a good idea. I strapped on the sheath and adjusted its buckles. Mab handed me Hellforged, and I slid it inside. I held the dagger in place while Mab snapped the top strap over it. The dagger pushed and struggled. If it could talk, it would have yelled, “Let me out of here!” It strained at the strap until I thought it would rip the snap from the leather.
Eventually, it settled down. The athame lay against my calf, shuddering from time to time, so that I never forgot it was there. It was probably every bit as aware of me. Either we’d drive each other crazy, or we’d finally figure out how to get along.
THAT EVENING, JENKINS AGREED TO DRIVE ME TO THE CROSS and Crow. Mab didn’t like the idea, though she didn’t try to keep me home. She gave me a second ankle sheath and a bronze-bladed knife. Then she asked about five times whether I had Hellforged and the slate, and she fussed over me in a way she hadn’t since … well, ever. By the time Jenkins and I made it out the door, it was past nine.As we pulled into the car park, the Bentley’s headlights swept across the pub. Mr. Cadogan had made some improvements since the last time I’d been here. He’d put up a new pub sign and installed floodlights that lit up the building’s stone walls, giving it an Olde Worlde, slightly eerie look, the very picture of a haunted pub.
I got out and inspected the sign, illuminated with its own bright lights. Against a background of a gigantic full moon and darkened hills, an eagle-sized crow perched on a gallows, complete with dangling noose. The huge bird looked like it could swallow the next hanged man in a single gulp. I shuddered. This new sign was overdoing the spooky look. Instead of inviting people in to quench their thirst with a relaxing drink, the sign shouted Danger! Death! Run away!
I hurried over, and we went inside. The ominous feel of the pub’s exterior disappeared as soon as I stepped into the warm, fire-lit barroom with its smells of wood smoke, varnish, and beer. Massive beams stretched across the low ceiling, lending solidity and coziness. In the huge fireplace, a roaring fire cast light and heat into the room. Hunting scenes and nineteenth-century prints of the village church decorated the whitewashed walls, along with crossed dueling pistols, old muskets, and an ancient military rifle, complete with bayonet. The wide-board floor slanted the way floors do in old buildings; so did the diamond-paned windows, framed by faded red velvet drapes. I passed a cluster of tables, making my way to the bar. Mr. Cadogan stood there, bald, red-faced, and jovial, talking to a customer. He looked up as I approached.
“Here’s our Vicky, then,” he said, grinning, like he’d been expecting me any minute. “We was wondering when we’d see you.” He noticed Jenkins behind me, took down a glass, and pulled a pint, filling the tilted glass with amber-colored beer. As he poured, he spoke to me in Welsh: “Noswaith dda, geneth. Sut wyt ti?” Good evening, lass. How are you?
“Hi, Mr. Cadogan,” I replied in English because he always teased me about my terrible Welsh pronunciation—in a good-natured way, but still. “I’m fine. I’d have come in sooner, but I’ve fallen asleep right after dinner most evenings. Still getting over my jet lag, I guess.”
“Oh, jet lag.” He handed the pint to Jenkins, who took a long drink and smacked his lips. “Terrible affliction. When the missus and me flew to the Costa del Sol, it took us nearly the whole blasted week to recover.”
Spain’s Costa del Sol was one time zone away, unlike the five I’d had to cross to get here from Boston, but I wasn’t going to challenge him to a jet-lag duel. “How’s Mrs. Cadogan?”
“She’s down in Cardiff, visiting Owen. Be back Monday.” He rubbed his hands. “Now, Vicky, what’re you havin’ to drink?”
“How about a glass of seltzer?”
“Pshaw. That’s no kind of homecoming drink. I’m givin’ it to you on the house, now, miss. Don’t insult me.” He reached for a glass large enough for me to bathe in and started filling it with lager.
“No, really, Mr. Cadogan. I could never drink all that.”
“I’ll take it,” said the farmer who stood at the bar.
“You’ll take it and you’ll pay for it.” The publican straightened the glass to put a head on the beer, then set it in front of the farmer.
I took a small sip. It was fizzy, with a light sweetness followed by enough of a kick that you wouldn’t forget it had alcohol. Mr. Cadogan watched me anxiously as I tasted it. “Good,” I said. He mopped his brow with exaggerated relief and grinned again, then refilled his own glass with the same beer he’d pulled for Jenkins.
I looked around. Besides a young couple at a table by the fireplace and those of us at the bar, the pub was empty. “How’s business?” I asked. “I read about the Cross and Crow in a magazine article.”
“Oh, you saw ‘Britain’s Most Haunted Pubs,’ did you? Nice photos, I thought. Hasn’t brought in many customers, though. It’s the bleedin’ economy.”
“It’ll pick up in the spring, maybe,” Jenkins said. “Who comes to north Wales in the middle of winter?”
The three men stared gloomily into their beers.
“How is Spooky Lil, anyway?” I asked.
Mr. Cadogan frowned. “Don’t talk to me about our Lil. Had it up to here with her.” He held his hand a good half a foot above his head to show how fed up he was. “Weren’t enough for her to scare the tourists upstairs. No, she had to start carryin’ on in the pub, too. It’s all very well when she bangs around a bedstead and moans a bit, but she soured two kegs of beer!” He said it with so much righteous anger you’d think Lil had been gobbling up the village children. “An’ she throwed the missus’s pots and pans around the kitchen. Broke a rack of new pint glasses.”
Mr. Cadogan had been busy making up new stories to entertain those anticipated throngs of tourists. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">