Fury of the Seventh Son (Book 13) (30 page)

So I put the sword in the grave, and we lowered the coffin on top of it. Then we stood there in silence for a few moments. What Grimalkin thought I do not know, but her eyes were downcast.

I do not make a habit of praying, but I remembered what I had said at Dad's grave. Now I repeated the words to myself.

Please, God, give him peace. It's what he deserves. He was a good, hardworking man and I loved him
.

For in truth he had been a teacher, a friend, and also a father to me.

Then, together, without speaking, Grimalkin and I filled in the grave. The only sounds to be heard were the thrust and lift of our spades, and the soil falling upon the wooden casket. The air was very still; even the birds had fallen silent.

Immediately afterward, Grimalkin attended to the scar on my face. For some reason known only to herself, it had to be done in the dark. I sat in a chair in a storeroom adjacent to the house.

“Keep still!” she hissed. “However severe the pain, you must not move.”

I felt her finger touch my face, tracing the line of the scar that began just below my eye. She muttered three words under her breath, and then I felt a strange sensation in my left cheek. At first it felt like ice, then like fire. Whether she cut me with a blade or some other instrument, I don't know. But the pain was intense, and I felt blood running down my face.

Although it was extremely difficult, I did not move— though inside I was crying out in pain.

Later I examined my face in a mirror. She had opened the scar again; in my opinion, it looked worse than ever. But I thanked her anyway. I didn't care how I looked anymore. I felt flat, my emotions deadened.

At dawn we said a brief good-bye. Grimalkin gave me a nod and headed over to where her horse was grazing. She told me neither where she was bound nor when she would return. I had refused her request to help with the new threat, so we had probably reached the end of our temporary alliance. She would go back to her business of being a witch assassin.

I wondered if I would ever see her again.

That night I dreamed of Alice . . .

Alice looked terrified. She stared up at me, and I could see her whole body trembling.

I was shaking, too, sick to my stomach.

Alice was tied to a large flat stone on a raised platform.

There was a large mound of stones nearby, but it wasn't a cairn such as was often found at the peak of a high fell. It was hollowed out, and a fierce fire burned within. It was a furnace created for a terrible purpose.

It was Halloween, and I was about to begin the ritual that would destroy the Fiend.

Standing on the other side of Alice, directly opposite me, was Grimalkin. She was balancing Bone Cutter and the Blade of Sorrow in the palm of her hand. The first would be used to slice the thumb bones from Alice's hands, the other to cut her beating heart from her chest.

If Alice cried out while I sliced the first bones, the ritual would fail. Her silence and bravery were essential to a successful outcome.

“I'm ready, Tom,” she said softly.

“It is time to begin,” added Grimalkin.

I loved Alice.

And Alice loved me.

But now I was about to kill her.

“Good-bye, Tom,” she said. “You were the best thing that ever happened to me. I have no regrets.”

I tried to reply, but my throat seemed to swell and I couldn't get the words out. My eyes brimmed with tears.

“Do it now! Quickly!” Grimalkin commanded.

I blinked the tears out of my eyes and, very gently, took Alice's left hand. Next I held it firmly against the stone. Now I had to position the knife. I took it from Grimalkin and readied myself for what must be done. It was difficult, because my hand was shaking violently, my palms sweating, making it difficult to grip the blade.

I took a deep breath and forced the blade through the base of Alice's thumb. I was screaming as I did so, but Alice was brave. Not one cry escaped her lips.

I awoke suddenly, my heart racing. It had been a nightmare of what might have been. That terrible dream had seemed real, but we had taken a different path, and the future had changed.

Then I became aware of a weight resting on my legs and heard the sound of purring.

So the boggart had survived, after all.

It did not speak to me; it did not demand my blood. Had it done so, I would have given it willingly. John Gregory had begun the process by doing a deal with the boggart to guard the house and garden. My own partnership with the boggart was far closer, and I knew not where it would take me. I knew that I was very unusual, but the dark was changing. The battle would perhaps demand different tactics.

We keep notebooks so that we may learn from the past, but now I know that a spook must look to the future, and adapt and change. A wise man continues to learn until the day he dies. John Gregory was wise, and he realized that sometimes a compromise with the dark is necessary. That was perhaps the last lesson that he learned.

CHAPTER XXXV

T
HE
C
HIPENDEN
S
POOK

L
ATE in the afternoon the day after we laid the Spook to rest, the bell rang at the withy trees.

I found a red-faced farmer in muddy boots waiting for me there, nervous and frightened and badly needing help.

“My name's Morris—Brian Morris from Ruff Lane Farm just south of Grimsargh. There's a boggart made its home in my barn,” he told me. “It's throwing great big rocks at the house. One went right through the kitchen window. Luckily my wife had moved away from the sink to tend to the baby. Had she been standing there, she'd have been killed for sure.”

It was routine spook's business, so I nodded and answered in what I hoped was a reassuring tone. “It sounds like you're under attack from a stone chucker. Get back home as quickly as possible—you and your family should leave the house. Stay with a neighbor. I'll follow as soon as I collect my things. With luck, I'll sort it out tonight. Otherwise two nights at the most, and it'll be gone.”

“No disrespect, lad, but I'd prefer it if your master attended to my problem.”

“That won't be possible,” I told him firmly. “Unfortunately John Gregory is dead. My name is Mister Ward, and I'm the Chipenden Spook now. I'm offering you my help.” I stared hard at him until he lowered his eyes.

“I won't be able to pay you right away,” he said. “Times are hard.”

“After the next harvest will do,” I replied. “Now be on your way. Get your family out and leave the rest to me. I'll deal with it—don't worry.”

He turned and, with a barely perceptible nod of acceptance, trudged off into the distance.

I went back to the house to collect my bag, not forgetting a small parcel of cheese for the journey.

My life as the Chipenden Spook had begun.

EPILOGUE

O
NCE again, I've written most of this from memory, just using my notebook when necessary.

I am no longer John Gregory's apprentice. Now I am the Chipenden Spook, and I must do my best to keep the County safe from ghosts, ghasts, boggarts, witches, and all manner of creatures from the dark—some, perhaps, as yet unknown. For, as my master taught me, life as a spook is one long process of learning.

Out there in the County, many incidents are, as yet, unexplained. We can learn from the past by using the legacy of knowledge left to us by former spooks, but the dark is always throwing up new challenges and surprises, and we must adapt and learn to counter any new threat.

Although I am no longer an apprentice, there is one local spook who will still be able to contribute to my learning. Judd Brinscall has offered his aid and experience, should I require it. I am practicing regularly to enhance my skills with staff and chain, the main weapons of a spook. As for the scar on my face, it is greatly improved. There is now just a faint white diagonal line running down from my eye. So Grimalkin's magic did its work.

That is the difference between me and previous generations of spooks. I am prepared to accept the use of magic, but only if the ends justify it and there is no cost to others. No doubt that is because of the lamia blood coursing through my veins. And I have another potent ally to help me should I require it—the boggart.

It had been the Spook's boggart; now it is mine.

But the sword will remain under my master's coffin. I am sick of killing. Now I will concentrate on dealing with the dark in the County.

As for my master, John Gregory, I will never forget what he did for me. In the eyes of most priests, spooks are no better than witches and cannot be interred in holy ground. Some are buried as close as possible to the boundary of a churchyard. But I didn't want that for my master.

We buried the Spook in what I guessed must be one of his favorite locations, next to the seat in the western garden—the place where we had often sat for my lessons. It was full of happy memories, with a view of the fells in the distance and the sound of birdsong filling the air. I was the thirtieth and last of his apprentices, and he must have spent many satisfying years here as he trained boys to fight the dark.

One day, perhaps, I will have an apprentice of my own. Maybe this is the place where I will also be buried.

I had the local mason craft a gravestone, and on it carve the following:

H
ERE LIETH

J
OHN
G
REGORY OF
C
HIPENDEN
,

THE GREATEST OF THE
C
OUNTY SPOOKS

It was a fitting epitaph. What I had ordered to be written there was true; there was no exaggeration. For more than sixty years, my master had fought the dark and kept the County safe. He had always done his duty, and done it well, displaying great skill and courage. Finally he had laid down his life in order that the Fiend might be destroyed.

But life goes on. Last week I had good news from Jack. Ellie has given birth to a healthy baby boy. They've called him Matthew, and now Jack has a son to help with the farm when he is older.

My job now is to keep the County safe from the dark.

If I achieve half as much as my master, I will be satisfied.

T
HOMAS
J. W
ARD

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JOSEPH DELANEY
lives in Lancashire, England, in the middle of boggart territory.

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CREDITS

COVER ART © 2014 BY PATRICK ARRASMITH

COVER DESIGN BY CHAD W. BECKERMAN AND PAUL ZAKRIS

COPYRIGHT

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

T
HE LAST APPRENTICE: FURY OF THE SEVENTH SON (BOOK 13)
Copyright © 2013 by Joseph Delaney

First published in 2013 in Great Britain by The Bodley Head, an imprint of Random House Children's Books, under the title
The Spook's Revenge
. First published in 2014 in the United States by Greenwillow Books.

The right of Joseph Delaney to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

Illustrations copyright © 2014 by Patrick Arrasmith

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Delaney, Joseph, (date.)

[Spook's revenge]

Fury of the seventh son / by Joseph Delaney ; illustrated by Patrick Arrasmith.
pages cm. — (The last apprentice ; book 13)

“Greenwillow Books.”

“First published in 2013 in Great Britain by The Bodley Head, an imprint of Random House Children's Books, under the title The Spook's Revenge”—Copyright page.

Summary: “Thomas Ward faces his ultimate test as he and his master prepare to deal with the Fiend once and for all”— Provided by publisher.

ISBN 978-0-06-219231-8 (trade hardcover) [1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. Devil—Fiction. 3. Apprentices—Fiction. 4. Horror stories.]