Dawn of the Demontide (14 page)

The clouds had vanished and the sun shone down on a bizarre scene. A carpet of tiny green corpses covered the town square. The Elders’ memorial was now so smattered with slime that it was impossible to read the names. Jake picked his way between the toads, careful not to step in any fresh goo. A couple of the fishermen stood on the steps of the pub and surveyed the amphibian graveyard from beneath bushy brows. They raised their pipes in greeting as Jake passed.

He had reached the road that led back uphill when a deep croak brought him to a halt. The only toad left unexploded sat on the pavement in front of him. Jake sank to his knee and examined the creature. Except for its milky white belly, warts covered every inch of its skin. Orange eyes with black slit pupils shone in the glare of the sun. The toad waddled towards Jake.

‘
Bufo bufo
.’

Jake blinked. It took a moment for him to realize that it was
not
the toad that had spoken. He looked up at the beakyfaced woman from the post office.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘
Bufo bufo
. The Latin name for the common toad. Ugly brute, isn’t he? I’m Alice Splane, by the way.’ She gave Jake a stiff nod. ‘I’m an ornithologist by profession—that’s a fancy word for someone who knows a lot about birds—but I dabble in herpetology, too: the study of reptiles and amphibians. The common toad is identifiable by his webbed hind feet, his broad body, and his rounded snout.’

Alice pointed out these details, all the while keeping her hand a good distance from ‘
Bufo bufo
’.

‘What about that?’

Jake indicated a dark blemish on the toad’s back. It was so well-defined that it seemed as if someone had drawn it with a black felt-tipped pen.

‘Just the usual markings,’ Alice shrugged.

Jake shook his head. ‘It’s crazy, but I think I’ve seen that symbol somewhere before … ’

‘“Symbol”? It can hardly be called a symbol, Jake. Such a word would suggest that the toad had been
deliberately
marked by someone. Like a toad tattoo!’

Alice Splane tittered. It struck Jake as an uneasy laugh.

‘No, no,’ Alice continued, ‘it’s just Nature’s blemish. We all have them: beauty spots, moles, acne scars.’

‘I guess.’

‘Honestly, I would suggest that you’re seeing patterns in things that aren’t there. Like noticing a face in the clouds or pictures in the flames of a fire. Our brains are programmed to seek out these things.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Goodness, is that the hour? I must be going.’

And with that, the woman turned and strode away.

‘Weirder and weirder,’ Jake said.

The whole village seemed to be in on the conspiracy to keep him in the dark about the Demontide and the sacrifice that was needed to stop it. Despite the horror of it, Jake couldn’t help smiling at their bumbling attempts to keep the secret.

Rrrurrrp.

The toad hopped across the pavement. Jake dropped to his knees again and lowered his head to get a better look at the toad’s tattoo. He
had
seen it before. Think …

The toad’s tongue lashed out.

‘Ow! Bloody hell!’

The shock was twofold. First, there was the horror of seeing that hideously long tongue shoot out from the toad’s throat. Black and dripping, the thing sprang towards Jake and latched onto his right hand. The tip stuck there, pulsating as the toad’s poison pumped into his bloodstream.

The second shock was the pain—a thousand times brighter than a paper cut, and growing worse by the second. Tentacles of agony lashed along his arm, into his chest, up to his throat and clawed behind his eyes. They cut across his brain like a razor blade and sliced down the length of his spine. Any minute now, he was going to lose consciousness.

There was only one thing he could do. The thought of it made his stomach flip.

He pinched the monstrous tongue between thumb and forefinger.

Another agonized cry escaped his lips. The toad’s tongue was as spiky as a porcupine’s back. Tears filled Jake’s eyes, but he did not let go. Bit by bit, he peeled the tongue away from his hand.

Jake gasped in surprise. Unlike the tongue of a human being, it didn’t end with a tip but with a circular sucker, like the pads on an octopus’s leg. A set of tiny teeth ran all around the sucker, each one covered in Jake’s blood. The teeth gnashed angrily while a thick green substance oozed from the tube of the tongue.

Jake tore the last tooth from his flesh. He shot to his feet and kicked out at the toad. The creature sailed through the air, hit the glass wall of the bus stop and, like its brothers before it, exploded in a murky haze.

The pain began to ease as Jake sucked the poison from the wound and spat it out. The stuff tasted like rotten eggs. He should probably go straight to hospital, get himself checked out. Exhaustion washed through him. All he wanted to do now was to sleep. He staggered back towards Stonycroft Cottage.

‘
Bufo bufo
,’ he panted. ‘Common toad. Yeah, right!’

A bolt of blue light shot out from the Witchfinder’s palm. It hit the other man square in the chest and sent him reeling back towards the portal. A smoky oval of shimmering shadows, the portal waited, ready to consume the witch.

‘Welcome to your prison, Coven Master.’ The Witchfinder’s rich tones echoed around the cavern chamber. ‘Here you will endure throughout the Ages. Here you will rot unto the Ending of the World.’

The witch teetered on the brink of the Veil. His hands reached out and tried to grasp the edges of the portal—his fingers sank through the smoke. The deep well of his horror could be seen in his eyes and heard in the hopelessness of his scream. The Witchfinder showed no pity. A fresh surge of magical energy pulsed along his arm and he released it through his fingers. The second burst struck the Coven Master and sent him screaming into the Veil. His other hand outstretched, the Witchfinder concentrated on maintaining the portal. He held on until he was sure that his enemy had been captured, then he closed his fist. The portal fizzled—shrank …

The Coven Master struggled towards the closing window.

‘I will find a way out,’ he screeched. ‘If it takes me centuries, I will open the Door and demonkind will sweep across this wretched planet. I promise you … ’

‘Try to escape and you will be dragged back. The Veil is now your home and your evil is at an end. Farewell, witch.’

‘NO!’

The portal crackled and closed.

The Witchfinder now turned to the Door.

He raised his hand again and gathered together the last shreds of his magic. The swirls, pentagrams, and pictures that had been etched into the Door shone with a fiery light. Huge cracks started to appear all across the stone slab. Any minute now, demonkind would break through this doorway and flood across the world. The Witchfinder pointed towards the symbol at the centre of the Door—

—and released the freezing spell.

‘Please … ’ he hissed through gritted teeth.

A deathly chill spread out from his heart and into his hands. His breath billowed white before his eyes. The Witchfinder continued to direct his magic at the Door, even as his fingers turned blue and little ice crystals crackled across his skin …

Finally, he turned away from the Door and staggered towards the cavern entrance. His heart slowed with every step, the chambers clogging with icy blood. The enchanted ball around his neck became too heavy for the frozen string. It fell to the ground and rolled away into the shadows. The Witchfinder hardly noticed. He concentrated on the path ahead. If only he could make it into the bay, the sun’s first rays would warm his cold body.

The name of his beloved creaked through his lips for the last time—

‘El-ea-nor … ’

Mr Grype draped a copy of
Elementary Hexes: Blackheads to Boils
across his face and closed his eyes. It had been a long day and his nerves were raw. The Demontide was fast approaching and he had done nothing in recent months to win his master’s approval. He needed to think of something that would bring him to Crowden’s attention, and quickly. After the Coven’s victory—when the Door had been opened and demonkind set free—the Master would hand out rewards to his most loyal witches. Come what may, Grype was determined to be among them.

It was no good—the witch could not sleep. He rose from his chair and stretched. His poor old back creaked. Mr Hegarty, Grype’s vulture-like familiar, was sound asleep on his perch above the fireplace. A beetle dropped from the bird’s plumage and, without waking, Hegarty snapped it out of the air. The demon swallowed. A second later, the beetle burrowed out of the bird’s skull and reappeared between its dirty feathers. A neat trick, Mr Grype had always thought.

Footsteps echoed along Yaga Passage. There were always footsteps, day and night, never ceasing, never giving Grype a moment’s peace. A strange shadow with eight writhing arms stopped at the filthy window of Crowden’s Emporium. The door handle rattled.

‘Will you come out and play, little librarian?’ It was a woman’s voice, purring in the deep, velvety tones of the American South.

Mr Grype shuddered. He plucked a few defensive spells from his store of knowledge and held out his hand, ready to cast the magic. It was a useless gesture. Deep down he knew that, if this creature broke into the shop, his magic could not save him.

Eight hands tapped at the window and fear surged through Mr Grype. The creature rattled the handle again.

‘Oh, honey, you’re no fun!’ it crowed.

The shadow moved on.

Grype took a pile of old books from his desk and started returning them to their shelves. Nine times out of ten this task calmed his nerves. Not tonight. He would never admit it to Mother Inglethorpe and the others, but he felt his inadequacy very deeply. Dark witches were chosen by a coven for two reasons: they had a talent for magic and they revered the power of Evil. Someone like Tobias Quilp ticked both boxes—his mind was as black as ink and he was clever when it came to picking up spells. Sometimes, however, a witch had more going for them in one department than the other. Although Grype was spiteful and vindictive, his magic was second-rate. How he hated people like Quilp and Inglethorpe, with their dark souls and extraordinary powers.

And then there was the late Sidney Tinsmouth, of course.

Yes, Sidney had been a very rare case indeed …

If only Grype could learn a new skill or discover a new secret. Something that would be of use to the Coven. Then he could show all those doubters and name-callers …

A thunderous crash made the librarian cry out. Mr Hegarty’s eyes snapped open and he shot off his perch.

‘What is it, my love?’ Grype said in a panicky voice.

The demon flapped around the shop. Terrified, it didn’t even pause to collect the beetles that fell from its plumage. Ten minutes or so passed before Mr Grype could calm the creature.

Another crash. Perhaps the many-armed monster had returned? But there was no shadow at the window and the sound did not come from Yaga Passage. It came from
inside
the shop. From the storeroom at the back.

‘Impossible,’ Grype murmured.

With his demon squawking in his ear, he walked slowly between the shelves. The dust from the books knocked over by Mr Hegarty still swirled in the air. As Grype approached the storeroom, another pounding crash made the dust shiver. Cracks started to appear in the wood of the storeroom door.

‘Impossible,’ Grype repeated.

Apart from books and old papers only one thing was kept in the storeroom. The boy. Simon Lydgate had been locked up in there ever since the night of Quilp’s capture. For the last six months, Grype had used the same sleeping spell to keep Simon under control. He had checked in on him every night, fed him a little, cast the spell …

‘Oh dear!’

This was the first night he had forgotten to work the magic! All that fretting about his place in the Coven had driven Simon clean out of his mind. Yet even without the spell, the boy was so weak and malnourished it was difficult to see how he had the strength to batter his cell door.