13 Curses (7 page)

As Ellie quietly lifted Rowan’s case onto the bed and unzipped it for her, Rowan gathered some of her belongings from her suitcase. Everything she needed for now had been packed at the top, as Ellie had instructed. She pulled her wash bag and nightdress from it, then collected a towel and washcloth that had been left folded on the bed.

The bathroom was spacious and cold, and when Rowan filled the sink with hot water, steam clouded the air and fogged the glass of the mirror above the basin. Together Rowan and Ellie changed James’s nappy and washed his face and hands. Then, while Ellie left to get James into his pajamas, despite his protests, Rowan washed her own hands and face, taking longer to do everything now that her left arm was in a sling from the crash.

Shivering, she looked over at the shower cubicle. As long as her arm was in plaster, she was limited to sink washes or shallow baths.

A gurgle came from the plughole in the bathtub, drawing her attention. Gleaming yellow eyes stared up at her from the darkness. Something was down there, and from the way it watched her, she knew it was fey. She moved closer. Froglike fingers slid through the plughole, gathering
soap-scummed hair that had collected in the drain. The slurping, squelching noises that followed told her that the hair was being eaten. She let out a small sound of disgust. The slurping continued, oblivious.

She turned away, stepping out of her clothes and into her nightwear, and snapped the bathroom light off as she left. Ellie had already put James into the crib and was ready to leave. She whispered her good-bye in the hallway and told Rowan she’d be back the following day. Then she was gone. Rowan stepped into the darkened bedroom, pushing the door but not fully closing it. She could hear more whispering downstairs between Ellie and John, and then the front door opened and closed before the building was left in silence.

She edged between the cold sheets of the bed, shivering. James was breathing rhythmically from the crib at the foot of the bed, already in an exhausted slumber. She stared around the room. Her suitcase stood in the corner. It contained only essentials, nothing personal save one thing: an old book called
The Fairy Tales of Hans Christian Andersen.
It had belonged to her mother. Rowan had insisted on bringing it. Everything else, the rest of her beloved books and James’s toys, was at home.

Only, it wasn’t home, not anymore. Now it was just a house, where a family had once lived. Choking on her sadness, it took her several moments to notice that the bedroom door was opening, slowly and soundlessly. She held her breath, wondering if this was the strange creature from the bathroom, but as the gap widened, a small hand curled around the edge of the door, and then a face appeared—a
face surrounded by an elfin crop of hair. In the next heartbeat, a second, identical face with short, cropped hair appeared just above the first.
Twins,
Rowan thought, aged about eight or nine. Quickly she half closed her eyes, watching the twins through her lashes.

“See?” one said in a whisper. “Told you there was a new girl.”

“Your chin’s digging into my head!” the other complained.

“Shush!”

“You
shush. You’ll wake her up!”

“Thought you wanted to wake her up?”

The twin on the bottom shrugged. “New girl? Are you awake?”

Rowan didn’t answer. She just wanted to be left alone. But the twins were not about to give up so easily.

“New girl? What’s your name?”

“Leave her alone, she’s asleep,” the other whispered.

Then Rowan heard one of them take a step into the room. “Look. There’s a baby—they said she had a brother.”

“Who said?”

“John. I heard him telling Sally. They were in a car crash. Their mum and dad died.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Poor things.”

“Come on. Let’s go back to bed.”

“Wait a minute,” whispered the other.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m giving her Mr. Bones.”

Rowan squeezed her eyes shut tighter as the twin came
closer to her. Her heart thudded. What was Mr. Bones, she wondered, some horrible children’s home trick that was played on the first night?

“What for?” the first twin hissed. “She won’t want that stinky old thing!”

“Yes, she will,” the approaching twin whispered defiantly. “He’ll make her feel better. Don’t you remember our first night? The first night is always the worst.”

Rowan tried to breathe deeply and convincingly, as though she were in a deep sleep. Then something was placed on the pillow beside her face, something warm and soft, and faintly smelly. She lay there, breathing the scent of it as the twins left. Only when she was sure they were gone did she open her eyes.

On her pillow was a stuffed toy dog. Its ears looked pulled about and one was longer than the other. It was patchy and bobbled, and only had one eye and no tail. It had the look of a toy that has always been loved the best.

Picking it up, Rowan pulled it closer, hugging it under her chin. Hot tears ran down her face and were absorbed by Mr. Bones. She turned her face into the pillow.

The twins were right. The first night really was the worst.

Shock stole over Red like a cloak as she sat unmoving in the dark cellar. She strained her ears, wondering if she’d imagined it—but no. The voice came again in a low, exhausted drawl.

“You’ll have to forgive us for not preparing for your arrival. We’ve been a little… tied up.”

Red squinted in the pitch-darkness. She could see nothing. The voice had sounded from directly in front of her.

“How many of you are there?” she asked, listening for any other sounds of life but hearing none.

“Oh, there are a few of us down here,” the voice said slowly, betraying something that sounded like a hint of amusement. “But I’m the only one you’ll get any conversation out of.”

Red felt her scalp tingle as her hair stood on end.
The voice was male and sounded older than her. There was something sly about it, something that made her immediately on her guard.

“Who are you?” she asked, shifting on the damp straw beneath her. The movement sent an acrid smell through the air. It caught in her nose and throat, sending her into a fit of coughing.

The voice waited for her spluttering to subside.

“Call me Eldritch.”

There it was again, that same sly inflection. In that sentence Red understood two things: first, that whoever—or whatever—sat across from her was not to be trusted. The name she had been given was not genuine, and on no account should she reveal her own name. Second, the manner in which a true name had been withheld strongly suggested that the being sitting opposite was a fairy. The last point was cemented in her mind with the voice’s next words.

“And what might
your
name be?”

Never give them your name, not if you can avoid it, for they’ll be sure never to give you theirs. Names are powerful.

“Call me Red.”

“Wise,” the voice remarked, and Red noted how it was less amused now, and more wary. Withholding her name made it clear that she had knowledge of the fairy realm—that she was not someone who had blundered blindly into it.

Her eyes had now adjusted. A chink of light from the trapdoor was making its way into the cellar—it was
not in utter darkness as she had first thought. She could just make out a shadowy form ahead of her. The features were indistinguishable but she could see that one arm was pinned to the wall, held in place by a manacle.

She twisted her body away from the stinking straw.

“Another good move,” Eldritch said dryly. “Out of all the places you could have landed, that was the least… fortunate.”

Red shuddered in disgust. The wet stench that now clung to her suggested that the patch of straw was a makeshift latrine. She fought the urge to retch.

“How long have you been down here?” she asked. “When did she capture you… and who
is
she? What does she
want
—”

“Patience,” Eldritch whispered. “Please, I’m weary and weak.” He coughed suddenly. “One question at a time.”

“I don’t
have
time,” Red hissed. “We need to get out of here and escape from that… that
thing
upstairs before we find out what she’s got in store for us! And judging by the state of the poor creatures—or what’s left of them—up there, I don’t think she has anything pleasant in mind!”

“We can’t escape,” Eldritch said flatly. “No one ever escapes.”

Lying on her side, Red tried to clear her head. Fear was clouding her thoughts. She forced herself to remain still, and drew in several calming breaths as she fought with her mind to work logically. Once she’d calmed herself a little, she rolled onto her back.
Then she rocked backward, easing her hands down toward the base of her spine.

“All right,” she said, still wriggling her bound wrists. “Let’s start at the beginning. Who, or what, is she? The woman upstairs?”

Eldritch’s eyes glinted.

“She’s known as the Hedgewitch,” he said quietly. “No one knows her real name, or where she came from. But most have heard of her. She’s the reason this part of the woods is desolate. They call it the Dead Wood now because of her. Nothing in it lives for long. Few are safe from her.”

Red grunted and continued writhing her hands behind her back. Slowly, she was managing to maneuver her bound wrists over her thin hips. If she succeeded in getting them underneath her and over her legs so that her hands were in front, she had a better chance of freeing herself. But it was a difficult task.

Eldritch paused and was watching her curiously.

“Go on,” Red said, resting to relieve the aching in her wrists.

“She’s a glamour-maker—a trader of dark magic. The animal skins above aren’t just clothing, not after what she does to them. Put on one of those cat or fox skins and it’s what you’ll become. Her magic extracts the essence of the animal—its soul, if you like—and traps it within the skin. And these are no flimsy surface glamours, designed to fool only ordinary humans. They’re infallible—even fey eyes are deceived by them. She’s a master of disguise.”

“She had her own disguise,” Red interrupted. “When she found me, she was an old woman… she looked harmless. And then, upstairs… in the cottage, it all melted away somehow. She became… younger.”

Eldritch nodded. “It’s what she does… how she fools people.”

Red rocked back again, pushing her bound wrists farther down her back.

“How long ago did she catch you?” Red asked.

“Three, maybe four moons ago. I’ve lost track of time. My companion and I fell into one of her traps.”

“What happened to your companion?” Red asked.

“He’s over there.” Eldritch inclined his head slightly.

Red looked at a dark, silent shape a short distance away. Like Eldritch, a hand was manacled to the wall. The head was slumped forward, the face not visible.

“He’s not moving,” she whispered.

“He stopped moving two weeks ago.”

Red’s head snapped back. “
Weeks
ago? I thought you’d only been here for three or four days? Unless… oh, no…” Her voice shook. “When you said ‘moons,’ I thought you meant nights. But you didn’t. You meant months, didn’t you?”

Eldritch’s slow nod sent a tremor through her.

“Why?” she croaked. “What does she want with us? Why does she keep us down here?”

“Mainly she captures for trade. She’ll work to discover your… qualities. Then she’ll wait until she has a buyer.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Someone comes to her, someone who has lost their sight perhaps, and who wants to regain it. The Hedgewitch can give them their sight back—or, more specifically, she can give them
your
sight. For what could be better than a young, healthy pair of eyes?”

Red gasped in horror, but Eldritch was only just beginning.

“Or perhaps someone comes to her who can see perfectly well… someone who has red or yellow eyes, and wants to be able to pass for a human… or simply someone who is bored and feels like a change—”