How to Stop a Witch (14 page)

Greg frowned. “Have you ever heard of a man named Nathanial Caine?”

“Possibly,” said Bob. He watched Lucky’s hair with a carnivorous look in his eye.

Greg followed his gaze, and only then noticed Melvin stalking up behind Lucky. With a single swipe, the boy retrieved a clump of Lucky’s hair by the roots and handed it to Bob.

“Ow!” Lucky yanked his hood back over his head.

Bob could hardly contain himself as he folded the hair into a kerchief and tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket. “No, I don’t know him.”

“What?” said Lucky.

“How about a Dolzowt Deth?” asked Priscilla.

Bob just stared back at her.

Melvin distracted Lucky while Priscilla probed a finger under his hood and plucked out a pinch more hair.

“Ow! Stop it.”

Priscilla handed the hair to Bob, who tucked it safely away with the rest. “Of course I know Dolzowt. He’s a legend here in the Netherworld. They say he can travel in and out of the Styx at will, but I have my doubts. I know no other who’s ever come to this place and managed to step foot back again.”

“Huh?” said Lucky, forgetting the pain in his scalp. “Mordred never mentioned that.”

Indeed, Greg remembered the magician had said only that they would need to figure out how to get back, not that it was impossible. It seemed an important detail to omit. But he would have to cross that bridge later.

“So, do you know where he lives then? Dolzowt Deth, I mean.”

“Again, possibly . . .”

“You’re not getting any more of my hair,” insisted Lucky, pressing a hand over his hood.

“Suit yourself,” said Bob. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited. The others waited too, with Lucky being the only point none of them focused upon.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Lucky said, reaching under his own hood and plucking still more hair. His eyes watered as he handed the clump over to the creepy salesman.

“No,” said Bob, “I have no idea where Dolzowt lives.”

“What?” said Lucky. “But—”

“Sorcerers of his ilk tend to keep pretty much to themselves. Sorry.”

“But he just gave you more of his hair,” said Greg.

Bob smiled. “Yes, thank you. I appreciate that.”

“Give me back that stick, Melvin,” Lucky said.

“Now, hold on,” said Bob. “Let’s not do anything rash. If you expect to find your friend, you’re going to need my help. Why, you lot wouldn’t last an hour here in the Netherworld without my protection. Perhaps now would be a good time to discuss payment for my ongoing services.”

“You’re not getting any more of my hair,” Lucky said, rubbing his scalp through his hood.

“Very well, perhaps one of you can give up an eye or a finger. I take all the standard forms of payment.”

“Greg, do something,” said Kristin.

“You help us find Nathan, and we’ll give you one final lock of Lucky’s hair,” Greg bargained.

“Wait just a minute,” said Lucky. “Who gave you the—”

Bob’s eyes flashed, but he caught himself quickly and managed an insulted look. “Perhaps I could do it for three. I’d be cutting my own throat, you understand, but you seem like good kids.”

“Two,” said Greg, “and that’s our final offer.”

“But—” said Lucky.

Bob looked as if he might start hopping with glee, even on his bad ankle. Still, his voice was calm when he spoke. “Very well. You drive a hard bargain.” He reached out toward Lucky’s hood. “Now, let’s have that hair.”

Lucky ducked out of reach as Greg slapped down Bob’s hand. Bob looked surprised by the quickness of both boys’ movements.

“Nathan first,” said Greg. “Then you get paid.”

Bob frowned. He stooped to pick up his briefcase, then paused to brush himself off and straighten his tie. “Very well. The village of Edmonton is a short walk from here. There’s a man there who is likely to have the answers you seek. I’ll take you to him, but you need to promise me one thing.”

“What might that be?” asked Lucky, frowning.

“I’m your insurance agent now. You won’t talk to anyone else, right?”

“Sure, fine,” said Greg. “Whatever. We’re wasting time.”

Bob offered the widest smile Greg had ever seen. “You’ve made a wise choice. I offer the best service for the price in this area.”

“We’re still wasting time.”

“Does that really matter?” Melvin asked. The others looked at him curiously. “Mordred said when we left here we’d come back to the exact instant we left. We can spend as much time as we want, and it won’t make a bit of difference.”

Greg frowned. “Something happens to Nathan down here,” he reminded them all. “If we don’t reach him and warn him before it does, we won’t
be
going home.”

An awkward moment of silence followed.

“This way, then,” said Bob, slipping an arm around Lucky’s shoulder and pointing with his briefcase. “We better go find your friend Nathan.”

Edmonton resembled
a scrap yard more than a village, reminding Greg of his brief trip to Gyrth. His grip tightened around his walking stick as he recalled the large gang of boys who had attacked him there.

Most of the homes barely remained standing. In fact, many had fallen, left abandoned where they lay. But when a loose board shifted, and a man crawled out of one of the larger piles, Greg realized the ruins were less abandoned than he thought.

The haggard-looking man was wrapped in more bandages than most mummies. Two men wearing crumpled suits and carrying briefcases swarmed on him as he crawled from the rubble. He ducked his head low and waved to indicate he wasn’t interested in what they were selling, but they continued to hound him all the same.

“If it’s financing you need, I can help you there, too,” one of them yelled, but Greg could hear little else.

Toward the center of the village, more people could be seen bustling about. They were similarly covered in bandages, and an unusual number were missing limbs. For each of those dressed in tattered tunics, two or three men in crumpled suits followed at their heels, pitching their services on deaf ears, or in some cases, no ears at all.

“What do these people do here?” Greg asked. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“Maybe they’re farmers,” said Kristin.

“Hardly,” said Bob. “Aside from some foul-tasting roots, nothing edible grows in the Netherworld. Even if it did, I sure wouldn’t eat it.”

“But then how do these people survive?” Priscilla asked. “Where do they get their food?”

Bob smiled. “There are plenty of sorcerers in the area who can provide everything they need, for a price.”

“You’d think everyone here would be bald,” observed Lucky.

“The demand for hair, other than red, is small,” said Bob, “as it is so plentiful. But there are other parts of the body that are valuable. Fingernails and toenails are a popular item, though they must be whole and can be a bit painful to remove. Skin is useful in some spells, and of course, for those who are really hard up, a few parts come with spares.”

Priscilla looked at him quizzically.

He waggled his fingers in front of her face for clarification.

“Gross!”

Bob smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, miss. You’re insured, remember?”

“How do we find Dolzowt Deth?” asked Greg. Aside from wanting to change the subject, he was anxious to finish his business in this disgusting place and get back home—assuming Nathan was with Dolzowt and had Ruuan’s amulet
and
knew a way to cross back into the Styx.

“There’s a little pub a bit farther up on the right,” Bob said. “Believe me, if there’s something to be known in these parts, the barkeep there will know it. Shorty’s always had a . . . knack . . . for drawing information out of his patrons.”

Kristin shrank back.

“It’s okay,” Bob told her. “I’ll handle things for you. That’s why you’re paying me, remember?”

The pub looked in better shape than any other structure in the village, though it, too, was little more than a hovel. The weathered sign for the Dirty Flagon had broken loose from one of its hooks and now hung creaking in the breeze, so low Bob had to duck as he reached for the door handle. He pulled the heavy wood door wide and held it open, but Kristin refused to step inside.

“We can’t go in there.”

“Nonsense,” said Bob. “You’re still covered inside.”

“No, I mean we’re not old enough.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Melvin. “My brother Marvin’s taken me into plenty of pubs.”

“Well, if he’s going in, I’m certainly going,” Priscilla announced.

“Me too,” said Lucky.

The group stepped past Bob into the dimly lit pub and blinked until they could once again make out their surroundings. The stench of stale smoke and even staler ale was nearly masked by the stench of more recent smoke and ale. Through the haze Greg could see that the furnishings perfectly matched the room in that they, too, looked about to collapse.

About twenty feet away sat two other patrons. Okay,
sat
was the wrong word. Both were slumped over their table, passed out drunk, or perhaps suffocated by the smoke.

Shorty, the barkeep, towered a full head taller than Bob, although at first glance Greg thought it was a weathered skull, not a head, resting atop the man’s shoulders. His skin was the palest of whites, his eyes deeply sunken, his thin blond hair plastered to his scalp. At the moment he stood behind the bar wiping off glasses with a dirty rag. Something about the way he carried himself suggested he had already killed eleven patrons this morning and wouldn’t mind making it an even dozen.

Bob led the group to the bar and asked Shorty if he knew where to find Dolzowt Death.

“I may,” Shorty said, pivoting stiffly toward Bob. He smiled, revealing a mouth full of rotted teeth. “But it’s gonna cost yeh.”

“Here we go again,” said Lucky, reaching for his hood.

Bob cleared his throat and motioned for Lucky to put his arms down. “What sort of payment were you thinking?” he asked Shorty in a businesslike tone.

Shorty set down his glass and sauntered around the bar. He paused to peruse each of the children in turn, taking an extra-long time to study the hump on Greg’s back. When he got to Priscilla, he seemed taken aback, apparently only then realizing she was a girl. Priscilla flinched under the scrutiny. Her trembling hand reached up to secure her hood tighter about her face.

Even with her relatively worthless brown hair, Kristin looked uncomfortable with the inspection Shorty gave her. When it came his turn, Melvin glared back at the barkeep, as if daring him to start something. Shorty stared back disinterestedly a moment or two before moving on. Lucky refused to meet the barkeep’s eye. He held his head low, so Shorty would have no chance of spotting what remained of the hair beneath his hood.

And then the focus was back on Greg. Shorty’s gaze lingered a bit too long on Greg’s fingers. Greg quickly moved his hands behind his back.

“Hmm,” Shorty said. He returned behind the bar and picked up the glass he’d been drying. “Where’d you find this crew? Not an eye or limb missing in the lot. Strange. Quite strange indeed.”

“They’re new clients,” explained Bob. “Just moved to the area. Just so you know, I’m waiving my usual fee because they seem like such nice folks.”

Shorty regarded him suspiciously. “Well, sorry, but I’m not quite so altruistic. I was thinking a couple of fingers from each of the girls might do it. How ’bout it, ladies? Want to lend me a hand?”

Both girls backed up a quick step. “Get away from us,” Priscilla threatened, though her voice barely managed to escape her lips.

“Um, look here now,” said Bob, “you’re frightening these good people.” He lowered his voice and looked about the empty room, as if about to reveal a confidence. “I’ll tell you what. Perhaps we could make a deal, just between you and me. How are you looking on insurance?”

“Step off,” Shorty snarled. “No one here’s interested in your
protection
.”

“But the Netherworld is a dangerous place. I can offer you peace of mind . . .”

“I got plenty of mind already, thanks.” He turned back to the children. “Now it don’t have to be fingers. If one of you wants to give up an eye or an ear instead, I think we can work out a deal.”

“Tell you what,” Bob cut in when he witnessed the looks of horror on the children’s faces. He glanced about the empty room again, as if to see if anyone was eavesdropping. One of the two patrons in the corner slid off his chair onto the floor with a thump, but did not wake.

Obviously intrigued, Shorty stopped wiping the glass he was holding and placed it back on the bar. “I’m listenin’.”

“I came across an unusual find not long ago,” Bob said in a low voice. “I may not know much about you or your situation here, but I’m sure it’s something you could use.”

Shorty’s eyes darted toward the children. “Did I just see that hump of yours move?” he asked Greg.

“No, sir.”

Even if he suspected Greg was lying, Shorty was not to be distracted from a deal. He turned back to Bob. “I’m still listening.”

Bob reached inside his suit jacket and removed the folded kerchief from his pocket. Shorty leaned forward curiously, but Bob turned his back on the man. He carefully unfolded the material, removed a single hair, and folded the kerchief back again. His eyes darted around the shady establishment a second time. Then he regarded Shorty seriously and held out the hair.

“What’s this, then?” Shorty asked. He leaned stiffly forward for a better look and reached across the bar with two elongated fingers.

Bob yanked the hair out of reach. “Careful, it’s very valuable.” His hand eased forward again, and Shorty’s mouth lolled open as he accepted the proffered hair.

“Is this what I think it is?” Shorty asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Nothing less,” boasted Bob. “Finest red hair this side of the Styx border. Red as the locks of the Pendegrass queen herself.”

Priscilla made a grunting noise that was quickly stifled by Greg’s palm.

Shorty offered a low whistle. He looked back to Greg and the others. The smile that split his face held all the warmth of an injured badger. “I may be just a simple country boy, but I’m thinking we might want to have us a look under them hoods.”