Fury of the Seventh Son (Book 13) (2 page)

T
HE following day, late in the morning, the Spook and I were sitting at a table in his new Chipenden library. Opposite us sat a small thin man dressed in a black three-piece suit and a white shirt with a dark gray tie. He was a lawyer, a Mr. Timothy Potts, who had made the journey south from Caster. He was taking notes as my master spoke.

The Spook was making his will. Or, to be more accurate, he was updating it.

As he did so, I looked around, only half listening. The house had burned down and had been rebuilt, and now almost everything within it was new. The library smelled of fresh wood. The shelves were still mostly empty and probably contained fewer than three dozen books. It would take a long time to restore it, and much of what had burned was irreplaceable—especially the legacy of books written by former spooks, with their personal accounts of how they'd practiced their trade. We dealt with ghosts, ghasts, boggarts, and witches—all manner of things from the dark. So we relied on books and notebooks a lot. Our careful records were vital; we looked to the past in order to prepare for the future.

“So
those
are my wishes,” ended the Spook very firmly.

Mr. Potts adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose and coughed to clear his throat. “I'll read it back to you, Mr. Gregory. Please interrupt if you have anything to add or feel that I have not accurately recorded those wishes.”

The Spook nodded, and Mr. Potts began to read very slowly, with hardly a trace of a County accent. He sounded really posh. He was obviously an “incomer” who had been born and educated down south.

“‘I leave my two main houses, at Chipenden and Anglezarke, to my apprentice, Thomas Ward, including all fixtures, fittings, books, and tools of the trade. They remain his, as long as he lives, on condition that he practices the trade of spook for as long as he is able. In his own will, he may only leave them to another spook, and on these same conditions.'”

I was sad to hear those words. It made me feel as if my time as the Spook's apprentice was almost over. But I took a deep breath and tried to think positively. Our time together might be drawing to a close, but surely we had another couple of years—time to complete my apprenticeship properly, and then perhaps continue when I was a fully trained spook, so that I could take some of the burden off his shoulders.

“‘I grant the use of my third house, north of Caster, which I inherited from William Arkwright, to Judd Brinscall, for as long as he practices as a spook in that location. In the event of his death or early retirement from the trade, that property, with its library, will revert to the ownership of Thomas Ward on the same terms stipulated for my other properties.”

Bill Arkwright had died fighting the dark in Greece. Now Judd Brinscall, a previous apprentice of the Spook, had taken up residence in Bill's old water mill and was attempting to deal with the water witches there.

Mr. Potts gave a little cough. “Is that correct, Mr. Gregory?”

“Aye, it's correct,” my master confirmed.

“What about your other financial affairs? Have you any income to dispose of?”

The Spook shook his head. “There is nothing significant, Mr. Potts. This is not a trade that makes a man rich. But if money is in my possession at my death, I leave that to my apprentice, Master Ward.”

“Very well.” Potts made a further short note before packing up his papers, pushing back his chair, and rising to his feet. He took his pocket watch from his waistcoat and glanced at the time before tucking it away again. “I will write this up in the proper manner and return here next week so that you may sign the document.”

The two men shook hands, and then it was my duty to escort the lawyer through the garden and off the premises—otherwise, he would have been in danger from the Spook's pet boggart, which guarded against intruders, both human and otherwise.

After setting Mr. Potts safely on his way, I returned to the library to find my master still sitting in the same position. He was slumped in his chair, staring down at the tabletop. He had aged a lot during the past two years; his beard was now totally white and his face gaunt. He probably felt that his life was drawing to a close. That, no doubt, was why he wanted to put his affairs in order. He certainly did not look happy.

In a few moments he was going to feel a lot worse.

Alice had asked me to keep her return and work with Grimalkin secret. But I'd been feeling guilty about it. My master was planning to entrust me with his property and his work after his death, whenever that might be. There were important things that I had to confess, things that would anger and dismay him. And I felt that now was the right time.

“Well, lad, that's one more thing sorted out,” he said, giving me a weary smile.

“There's something I've not told you,” I blurted before I could change my mind. “I already know the details of the ritual for destroying the Fiend.”

My master stared at me for a few moments without speaking, looking far from pleased. “In that case, you've lied to me, lad. You told me that the details would only be revealed to you when Alice returned with the third blade.”

“I'm sorry. Yes, I did lie, but I did so for good reason. I didn't want to worry you until Alice got back and we knew we had the third weapon. And I needed time to think, to find a way of avoiding what's supposed to be done . . . because it's bad—really bad.”

“Lying to your master is also bad. I'm disappointed, lad. I've left you my property because I want you to follow in my footsteps after I've gone. And how do you repay me? Yes, I'm disappointed, and hurt, too. After years of working together in mutual trust, speaking the truth to each other should be second only to breathing. And time's running out. Halloween is approaching. Is there any news about the girl yet, or have you been hiding that from me too?”

“No.” I shook my head, telling a new lie.

“Well, lad, I'm waiting. Get it off your chest. Spit it out. Tell me about the ritual, and don't leave anything out.”

“I won't be carrying out the ritual,” I told him. “I can't. There has to be a sacrifice. To make it work, I have to kill Alice.”

“Why does it have to be her?” the Spook demanded.

The next words were very hard to utter. My master had always mistrusted Alice because she had been trained as a witch. He also thought that a spook should devote his entire life to the trade and not marry. To get too close to a girl was, in his eyes, a dangerous distraction.

“To carry out the ritual, I have to sacrifice the person I most love on this earth. That's what Mam told me. So it has to be Alice.”

The Spook closed his eyes and gave a deep sigh. There was a long silence. At last he spoke, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

“Does the girl know?”

I nodded. “The victim has to be a willing sacrifice. Alice
is
willing to die in order to destroy the Fiend. But it's too horrible—I won't do it. Here!” I said bitterly, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the piece of paper that gave the details of the ritual. I held it out. I'd been carrying it around, waiting for the right time to reveal all this to my master.

He shook his head. “My eyes are tired. Each day I'm finding it more and more difficult to read. So do it for me, lad. Read it aloud slowly.”

So I did as he said, but just read out the most important sentences:

“
The destruction of the Fiend may be achieved by the following means. First, the three sacred objects must be at hand. They are the hero swords forged by Hephaestus. The greatest of these is the Destiny Blade; the second is the dagger called Bone Cutter. . . . The third is the dagger named Dolorous, sometimes also called the Blade of Sorrow. . . 
.

“
The place is also important: it must be one especially conducive to the use of magic. Thus the ritual must be carried out on a high hill east of Caster, which is known as the Wardstone
.

“
First the blood sacrifice should be made in this precise manner. A fire must be constructed, one capable of generating great heat. To achieve this it will be necessary to build a forge
.

“
Throughout the ritual, the willing sacrificial victim must display great courage. If she once cries out to betray her pain, all will be lost and the rite will fail
.

“
Using the dagger Bone Cutter, the thumb bones must be taken from the right hand of the victim and cast into the flames. Only if she does not cry out may the second cut be made to remove the bones of the left hand. These also are added to the fire
.

“
Next, using the dagger Dolorous, the heart must be cut out of the victim and, still beating, cast into the flames—
”

“Stop!” cried the Spook, rising to his feet so suddenly that his chair overturned.

“But there's more,” I protested. “I have to—”

“I don't want to hear any more!” he exclaimed. “I've put my own affairs in order because I know that I'm approaching the end of my time in this world. But there's one thing more that I want to do—use the last of my strength to destroy the Fiend forever. We need to pay him back for all the suffering and misery he's inflicted upon the world. But you're right, lad, in not wanting to use that ritual. We've already compromised with the dark in order to get this far. You and the girl—you've used a blood jar to keep the Fiend at bay, and we've had a long-standing alliance with Grimalkin, the witch assassin. Those were bad enough, but this is something far worse. It's more than just cold-blooded murder. It's barbaric. Do that, and we're not fit to call ourselves human. The ritual is out of the question.”

The Spook righted his chair, sat down again, and glared at me across the table. “Now I want to ask you a few questions. You learned of the ritual from your mam when you visited Malkin Tower?”

“Yes.”

“She appeared to you?”

I nodded. Mam had died in Greece fighting her mortal enemy, the Ordeen. But her spirit had survived. It was still strong—and was trying to help us finish off the Fiend.

“What form did she take?”

“At first she looked like a fierce angel with claws, just as she appeared in Greece. But then she changed into the Mam I remembered—the woman you talked to at our farm soon after you first took me on as your apprentice.”

The Spook nodded. He seemed to be deep in thought.

“Where did that piece of paper come from?” he asked, taking it from me.

“Mam appeared to Slake and dictated the instructions. She wrote them down.”

Slake was a lamia witch—one of Mam's “sisters.” She was still in control of Malkin Tower, keeping the local witches from repossessing it.

“Well, lad, we've some serious thinking and talking to do. What's the job for us today? I heard the bell ring early this morning. It must be important if somebody walked through the night to reach us.”

The bell was at the withy trees crossroads, not far from the house. When somebody wanted the Spook's help, they went there and rang the bell and waited.

I wondered why the Spook was suddenly so interested in our work again. For weeks he had just sat in the garden or in the library, dreaming. The heart seemed to have gone out of him. Mostly he'd just left me to it, not even asking who'd come for help or what their problem was.

It had been hard work dealing with the dark alone— there had been more spook's business in the last week than normally came to us in a month. It seemed that it was becoming more active. Perhaps it was something to do with the approach of Halloween and the coming ritual?

“No, he didn't journey through the night,” I replied. “He lives locally—south of the village. It's only half an hour away at most. He's accused someone of using dark magic against him. He claims she's a witch.”

“Who made the complaint?”

“A man called Briggs. He lives at number three Norcotts Lane.”

“I'll come with you, lad,” said the Spook, nodding his head. “It'll give us a chance to talk things through.”

I smiled at him. It was good to see him taking an interest in the trade once more.

Within the hour we had left the house and garden and were walking across the fields. I was carrying both bags.

It was just like old times!

CHAPTER III

T
HE
F
IRST
L
AMIA

T
HE sun was shining, and there was hardly a cloud in the sky. It was warm for late autumn, but that wouldn't last. In the County, more often than not, we had rain and winds blustering in from the west. By November, the wet weather would really have set in.

At first the Spook seemed to be enjoying the walk, but after about ten minutes his expression became grim. I wondered if his knees were bothering him. He'd started to complain about them more frequently, claiming that too many chilly and wet County winters had destroyed the joints. But today's warmer, drier weather should have been making him feel better.