The Books of Elsewhere, Vol. 1: The Shadows (17 page)

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Authors: Jacqueline West

BOOK: The Books of Elsewhere, Vol. 1: The Shadows
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“If he wanted to create eternal life, why didn’t Aldous McMartin just paint a picture of himself?”
“He did,” said Horatio.
“Dozens,” said Harvey.
“His son destroyed them,” Horatio continued.
“Albert wasn’t so stupid that he couldn’t see what was going on. He lived in the same house, after all. He disliked the influence that his father was having over Annabelle, and finally he moved his wife and daughter out of this house and refused to let Annabelle see her grandfather, even though Annabelle was a young woman by that time and it was already far too late. However, Aldous decided to take care of that problem.”
“How?” asked Olive. A creeping feeling tiptoed over her scalp.
“He killed Annabelle’s parents,” said Harvey bluntly.
“But there Aldous made a little mistake,” said Horatio. “Annabelle was not as evil as her grandfather. After the murder of her mother and father, she began to realize that she did not want what her grandfather wanted. Maybe she didn’t even
want
to live forever. Unfortunately, Aldous had planned for this, too.” Horatio gave a significant look at the spot where the necklace hung against Olive’s shirt. “Aldous was a very old man by this time. He painted one last self-portrait. And he put it in the locket that you are wearing at this very moment.”
Olive clutched the pendant.
“Blackpaw’s booty,” whispered Harvey, a bit sadly, to the bathtub drain.
Horatio rolled his eyes.
“Aldous gave the necklace to his beloved grand-daughter, and made her promise to bring him back to life by setting that portrait free,” Horatio said. “Of course, by now, Annabelle had no intention of doing so. When Aldous did die at last, Annabelle had him cremated, so there would be no grave or gravestone, and she hid his ashes in a place she thought was safe. We’ve been helping her guard them for years. Then she tried to destroy the locket. But Aldous had made sure that Annabelle could never take it off. She wore it until she finally died of old age, at a hundred and four years old, right here in this house. And then this nincompoop in the tuna can breastplate made off with it before Leopold or I could find a safer spot for it.” Horatio shot a look at Harvey, who was conveniently preoccupied with grooming his tail.
“Annabelle—Ms. McMartin—never had children, never told anyone her family’s secrets,” Horatio continued. “She wanted the McMartin line to end with her. Of course, it didn’t really end. This house is still a powerful place. The painted version of Annabelle is wandering around, faithfully trying to bring her grandfather back. And you’ve got his picture hanging around your neck.”
Olive clutched at the necklace. “What can we do?”
“My lady,” Harvey proclaimed, “I have seen zee sorceress Annabelle moving through zee upstairs hallway. She zhen entaired zee painting of zee street des Lindens, perhaps to get zee
petit garçon
. Zat means ‘leetle boy.’”
“This will be much easier if you drop that accent,” said Horatio.
Harvey glared.
“She has tried to get the necklace—and now she has gone to get the blood of a boy who cannot die to open it. All she needs . . .” Horatio trailed off.
The two cats gave each other a steady look. Then, in one smooth movement, they leaped out of the bathtub. Olive scrambled behind them. With Horatio and Harvey in the lead and Olive rushing blindly after, they ran down the stairs, into the kitchen, and through the creaking door of the basement.
18
 
E
VENING HAD ENDED. It was night, dark and absolute. No light came in through the basement’s high, small window but the faint white sheen of the moon. Like all cats, Harvey and Horatio could naturally see in the dark, and bounded down the stairs ahead of Olive. She trailed behind more slowly, keeping one hand on the wall, and trying to ignore the feeling of dread that trembled in the pit of her stomach.
The basement was as chilly and damp as usual. Olive’s still-wet clothes clung to her clammily. She wished she were in a warm bathtub, or wrapped up in a blanket in front of a fire—in fact, she wished she were anywhere but a damp, dark basement with a trio of talking cats and a dangerous painted witch.
Horatio and Harvey moved soundlessly around the corner past the stairs. Olive tiptoed behind them as softly as she could, and almost stepped on Horatio’s tail when both cats froze.
The flickering light of a candle broke the shadows in the corner. Olive saw Leopold’s stalwart black bulk sitting at attention on the trapdoor. In front of him stood Annabelle.
Somehow Annabelle looked different already. Her carefully brushed hair had come out of its combs and hung in limp tangles against her back. Her face—or what Olive could see of it—looked sharper edged and cruel, not at all like the soft pink complexion from the portrait.
“Get out of the way, Leopold,” Olive heard Annabelle snap.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, ma’am,” answered Leopold, over a chest puffed out so grandiosely that it nearly eclipsed his chin.
“Very well,” said Annabelle. “You’ll move when I open the door.”
Annabelle bent down to grasp the trapdoor’s iron loop.
“A soldier doesn’t like to hurt a lady, madam, but—” Leopold gave Annabelle a sharp swipe across the cheek.
Annabelle jerked back for a split second, looking annoyed. Then she bent down toward the trapdoor again.
“Don’t make me give you another,” warned Leopold, but Annabelle brushed the cat off of the trapdoor with one powerful sideswipe. Leopold toppled backward, thrown against the stone wall.
Annabelle lifted the door and reached down into the dusty darkness. From inside, she hoisted out a smallish gold container that looked, to Olive, like something between a trophy and a lamp. It was covered with etched scrolls and curlicues, just like the patterns on the necklace around Olive’s neck. Maybe she was imagining it, but Olive thought for a second that she could feel the metal of the necklace growing warm against her skin.
Annabelle turned, holding the urn in both hands, and spotted Horatio, Harvey, and Olive.
“Well, well. The gang’s all here,” said Annabelle, and Olive couldn’t hear a trace of the sweet, polite voice of the Annabelle who had served her tea.
Harvey cleared his throat and puffed out his chest beneath his tin breastplate. “Lady, should you attempt to make away with those ashes, you shall face the righteous wrath of the guardians of this house,” he proclaimed.
“Harvey, you deluded little mongrel,” growled Annabelle. “I’d like to see what three cats and a dimwitted little girl could do to stop me.”
Annabelle’s eyes flicked over to Olive. “I see that you escaped from the lake,” she said. “You must be feeling awfully proud of yourself. But it will only make things worse for you later.” Candlelight flickered against the lifeless veneer of Annabelle’s gold-brown eyes. “Then, I promise you, you’ll wish you
had
drowned.”
Annabelle lifted one hand from the urn and made a sign in the darkness. The pendant grew hot, burning Olive’s skin. Olive tried to grab the chain, to lift the necklace away from her body, but found that she couldn’t move a muscle. The pendant lay like a lump of burning coal against her chest.
With a twisted smile, Annabelle made a circular motion in the air. Olive spun in place. “There we are,” said Annabelle. She glanced down at the cats. “If you wouldn’t care for the same treatment,” she warned, “I would suggest that you three make yourselves scarce.”
Then, with a whisk of her long, filmy skirts, Annabelle set off for the stairs. Olive trailed behind her involuntarily, like a deflating balloon on a string.
Apparently, this was the last straw.
“
Charge!
” bellowed a voice from the darkness.
Olive saw a black blur fly through the air and plant itself firmly on Annabelle’s shoulders. Another reddish blur tangled itself around her ankles.
“En garde!” yowled Harvey, before taking a flying leap and attaching himself to Annabelle’s head like a furious Russian hat.
Annabelle gave a rather muffled shriek, since half of Harvey was covering her face. She batted and kicked at the cats, who clung as stubbornly as burs, reattaching their teeth and claws after each swipe. Still, despite the furor of her attackers, Annabelle trudged up the basement stairs with the urn clutched in her hand.
The whole hissing, howling group of them made it through the kitchen and into the hallway. Olive was dragged along behind them, with the necklace singeing a hole in her shirt. Her skin beneath it was blistered and sore. If the necklace had once been a magnet that pulled itself toward Olive, now it was a magnet that pulled Olive toward the urn in Annabelle’s hands.
Annabelle made her way slowly up the stairs to the upper hallway, batting irritably at the cats. Horatio snaked between her ankles, trying to trip her, and Leopold slashed wildly at the urn, attempting to knock it out of Annabelle’s iron grip. Harvey was still wrapped around her head. “Ye have met your match in King Arthur’s knights, sorceress!” he cried. “The righteous shall prevail against evil!”
“Sad little lunatic,” Annabelle muttered. Then she raised one hand and snapped her fingers. The sound shot through the house like a whip-crack. It was followed by another sound: the creaking of a distant door.
“Baltus!” called Annabelle.
Out of the shadows of the attic thundered the gigantic dog. His paws beat the hallway carpet like sledgehammers. His long, yellow teeth were bared. He looked so different from the cheerful, tail-wagging mutt she had rescued from the painting that Olive almost didn’t recognize him.
The three cats turned into hissing, bristled arches. The dog jumped, hallway light glinting on his wet teeth. Before Baltus’s fangs could close around Horatio, who was still grappling with Annabelle’s ankle, all three cats released their grip and zipped away down the staircase. The huge dog thundered after them. The sound of claws scrambling across polished hardwood faded into the distance.
Olive held her breath, listening for hissing, growling, or shouting—anything that would tell her the cats were still safe—but the house had gone silent.
She ached to run down the stairs and throw herself into the battle. But her legs wouldn’t move. She couldn’t even turn her head. The necklace hung, smoldering, against her chest, and Annabelle stood beside her, a smile that didn’t reach her eyes twisting her mouth into a cruel, painted hook.
Annabelle put on the spectacles. “We’re going to visit your little friend,” she said. Then she clamped her hand around Olive’s wrist. Together they climbed into the painting of the dark forest.
19
 
T
HE COLD WIND rippled through Olive’s hair. For the first time, she felt thankful for the icy forest air, for the slight relief it gave to her sore skin beneath the searing pendant.
Annabelle darted quickly, almost running, down the white path through the trees. Olive trailed after her, unable even to push away the thorny branches that slashed her face and arms. The moon seemed to grow dimmer and more distant as they followed the path into the heart of the forest.
At last they came to a clearing. Here, the thick trees and underbrush had been swept away, leaving a hole for the pale moonlight to fill. The white path broke into two halves, forming a perfect circle around one stump. Sunk deep into the wood of the stump glittered something that looked, to Olive, like the hilt of a dagger.
There was a soft whimpering from one side of the clearing. Olive couldn’t turn her head, but forced her eyes in the direction of the familiar sound. She spotted Morton, still wearing his oversized nightshirt, tied to a small bare tree. Olive’s whole body itched with frustration. She wanted to run to him, but she couldn’t even speak.
Annabelle set the urn gently on the smooth surface of the stump. Now with both hands free, she crossed the clearing and untied Morton, although Olive noticed that Morton’s little ankles were still bound together, so that he nearly had to hop as Annabelle hustled him back to the stump.
Morton’s round, terrified face looked up at Olive. Olive, who couldn’t move anything else, gave Morton the biggest wink she could manage.
Slowly, Annabelle removed the lid from the urn. In the moonlight, her face was twisted and cruel, her eyes like little oil fires. Olive couldn’t believe she’d ever found Annabelle beautiful.
“Hold out your hand, boy,” said Annabelle to Morton.
Morton froze, too terrified to move. Olive thought of the rabbits she had seen in the backyard, who seemed to imagine that motionlessness made them invisible. Unfortunately, this didn’t work for Morton any better than it worked for the rabbits.
Annabelle grabbed Morton’s arm roughly, and he let out a frightened peep. She turned his little hand palm-up over the open urn.
“Come closer, Olive,” Annabelle whispered. Olive’s feet shuffled nearer to the stump, even while her brain commanded them not to.
Annabelle reached out and grasped the pendant that hung around Olive’s neck, dragging Olive down to the urn. Then she yanked the dagger out of the stump. Moonlight flashed on its sharp blade as Annabelle dragged the knife swiftly across Morton’s palm. Drops of blood or paint, black in the darkness, fell over the gold metal of the locket and into the urn’s open mouth. With the point of the dagger, Annabelle wedged open the filigreed halves of the pendant. Olive heard the click of a tiny hinge.

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