13 Curses (4 page)

At first, she was able to use the footholds she had found earlier, but halfway up, when her sore hands were taking the brunt of her weight, the pain brought tears to her eyes. By the time she reached the opening, her body was shaking with exhaustion. Soon, one arm was flung over the side of the hole, closely followed by the other. The old woman was standing before her silently, her face obscured by her heavy hood as it had been before. She reached forward and offered her hand to Red. This time, Red had no other option than to accept it.

As the gnarled fingers took her own, the old woman released a small breath that could have been from the burden of Red’s weight. But as Red was tugged closer to her, she was overcome by the awful, cloying scent of that one small exhalation, and as she played the sound back in her mind it became more like a sigh. It smelled like things that were rotten and decaying. She collapsed on her knees at the woman’s feet, managing a single glimpse of the face that was concealed beneath the hood. The thin, red mouth was twisted into a hideous grin.

Then, with one hand still clasped around Red’s,
tightening like a noose, the other was drawn back. Helpless, Red could only watch as it came rushing toward her… and dealt her a vicious blow to the head.

Although the blow to Red’s head did not render her unconscious, it stunned her badly. Crumpling to the ground, she heard the low sound of something moaning—a creature in pain—and knew it to be herself. Mingling with it was another sound: the cackling of the gargoyle-like fairy in the trees above. She tried and failed to sit up, forced instead to lie helplessly on her side. Her vision clouded. She did not have the strength to put up a fight as her wrists and ankles were bound behind her.

Before her she saw the woman hunched over at the mouth of the hole, hauling something out of it. The fox was trapped in a woven net, and it was struggling feebly and whimpering. The woman turned toward Red, and then she felt something thrown over her also, something rough and scratchy. It was secured tightly above her head, and then she was being dragged over the ground. Stones scraped spitefully at her thin back and there was a peculiar pricking sensation at one of her ankles.

“Who are you?” Red managed. “Why are you doing this? Let me go!”

The woman did not reply. Twisting her hands in their bonds, Red fumbled for her knife, already knowing that it would be gone. The woman must have removed it after striking her. Through the weave of the cloth, Red could make out the sunlight flickering
through the branches above. Her head throbbed. Still, the creature in the trees screeched, its cries thinning as she was dragged farther into the woods.

Soon she had recovered enough from the blow to start struggling. The fug in her head had cleared, but the woman paid no mind. Red then yelled, though it rewarded her with nothing but a sore throat. She quickly gave up calling out after noticing that the woman seemed curiously unconcerned. It meant that there was no one to hear her.

When the woman stopped, Red twisted around within the confinement of the sack. It smelled terrible and was stained with something dark. She pressed her face into the itchy fabric, squinting through the weave. A small wooden cart lay ahead. The woman unlatched the back of it, then Rowan felt herself being hoisted up. She heard the woman grunt with effort as she lifted her, and then she landed heavily on the flat wooden bottom of the cart. There was a smaller thud as the fox was tossed in on top of her. She felt its thin body roll off and land beside her. There was a bang as the hatch was slammed back into place and latched once more, preventing her from rolling—or jumping—out. Then came a creak and a clatter from above, and when she tried to sit up, she found that some kind of mesh had been closed over the top of the cart too, forcing her to lie down.

“Where are you taking me?” she yelled. “Please—let me go! You
have
to let me go!”

Her pleas fell on deaf ears. If the woman heard
she did not show it. Instead, Red heard her moving to the front of the cart, which then began to rumble over the uneven ground.

Next to her she felt the fox, trembling with terror, its breathing shallow. When the cart stopped a short while later, the fox had stopped moving altogether. She heard the mesh thrown back and the hatch pulled down, and then something creaked: a door. The top of the sack was seized and once more she felt herself being dragged, out of the cart and over a threshold onto a hard floor. From the coldness of it seeping through the sack, Red guessed the floor was stone. Seconds later, when the sack was cut open, she saw that she was right.

She was in a small, ramshackle cottage. It was crudely built of stone, with a wooden door and small, uneven windows. In the farthest corner, a huge black pot bubbled over a fire, billowing thick steam. Stories of wicked old witches in the woods filled her mind. There was an awful smell about the cottage. As she looked up at the low thatched roof, the source of the smell was revealed as her eyes met with a gruesome sight.

Animal skins of every description hung from the rafters. Some large, some small, older ones that were dry and newer, fresher ones. There were pelts of badgers, rabbits, foxes, deer, and squirrels, plus many more that she was unable to identify. The stench that filled her nostrils was death. In wooden cages dotted around the edges of the cottage, more animals were
crammed in. These were still living, but Red could tell from their eyes that they knew the fate that awaited them. They had seen and they understood.

She squirmed, trying desperately to loosen her bonds. The woman had left the cottage and was outside, unloading the cart. A moment later she returned, throwing a smaller sack onto the cottage floor before disappearing again. It landed against Red, and she knew it to be the fox. She maneuvered herself into a position to be able to rest her hands upon the sack. Through the cloth she could feel its pitiful body, still warm but utterly motionless. It was dead, as she knew it would be, and Red was glad, for at least now it would be spared knowing what was to come—unlike the poor creatures trapped around her.

The woman’s form filled the doorway once more, and Red lay still, watching through narrowed eyes as a basket of herbs and plants was placed just inside the door. When the woman left for a third time, Red scanned the cottage for something, anything she might use as a weapon. Her sharp eyes caught sight of the hilt of a small knife on the hearth, next to a mound of vegetables. She wriggled like a caterpillar over the stone floor toward it, cursing that the fireplace had to be in the corner farthest from her. She had made it only halfway across the floor when a wheezy laugh sounded from behind her. The woman had come back.

Red tensed, swallowing hard. She forced herself to roll over. The woman watched her, bemusement
on her crooked face. Summoning the remainder of her strength, Red wriggled with all her might to close the gap between herself and the knife. But she was too slow, too awkward, and the woman had crossed the floor and was upon her before she’d gotten anywhere close. Grabbing her by the ankles, the woman pulled her into the middle of the cottage before releasing her. Then, slowly and deliberately, the woman threw back her hood and reached into the tangled mass of her hair. From it she untied a thick lock of grizzled gray hair and let it drop to the floor. It landed next to her, and Red could see small pieces of fabric knotted into it and, looped into a tiny plait, a tarnished locket. It was open, and inside were two portraits: one of a man, and another of a woman.

Confused, Red stared up at the old crone—and gasped. Before her eyes, the woman was changing. Her hair became lighter and smoother until it was the color of honey. Her eyes were amber, and her limbs long and slender. In a matter of moments, the wizened crone she had first encountered was gone, replaced by a much younger woman. Her face was hard and thin; her mouth, cruel.

It was like she was a completely different person.

Moving far more quickly now that she had shed her disguise, the woman knelt and seized Red by the hair with one hand, forcing her head back. Red winced, but managed to refrain from yelling out. With her other hand, the woman tilted Red’s chin slowly, as though admiring her.

“You’re a feisty one,” she said softly. “I came as soon as I heard about you. In my best…
garment
, no less… though you were not fooled, even by the appearance of a helpless old lady.” She paused and gave a soft little sigh, and once again Red was subjected to that terrible scent that was her breath—of things dead and rotting. “I haven’t had a young one for some time now,” she whispered. “But I’m ready for a change. You’re going to be very…
useful
.”

“What are you talking about?” Red said, horrified. “What do you mean?”

The woman did not answer. Instead, she stood and moved over to a thick animal pelt resting on the floor and serving as a rug, then kicked it back to reveal a trapdoor. She heaved it open, then pulled Red up. A dark little wooden staircase led down into a cellar. Cold, damp air drifted up from it.

Red swayed on her feet, the bones on the insides of her ankles digging into each other from being bound so tightly. Standing, she was able to see much more of the cottage—though none of what she saw was a comfort.

A large work surface stood at the back, smeared with dark stains. On it were several dead birds, some of which had been plucked. Their feathers filled a wicker basket nearby. Assorted animal skulls were heaped in another basket, next to a mortar and pestle containing a fine white powder. Bottles and jars littered the other surfaces—their contents dark and slimy-looking. An unfinished iridescent garment glittered
from where it lay folded over the back of a wooden chair, a needle hooked into it, waiting to finish the job. As she looked more closely Red saw that the material the garment was made up of was hundreds upon hundreds of tiny wings: butterfly wings, all stitched together. She turned to face the woman who by now she had guessed could only be a witch.

“I can’t feel my legs,” she pleaded, swaying again.

The witch smiled back at her, and from the folds of her long dress produced something pointed and glinting: Red’s own knife. Stooping, she brought the knife down in a sharp slash, slicing through the bonds that held Red’s ankles. Then, with no time for Red to feel surprise or relief, a hard shove sent her flying into the depths of the pitch-black cellar, before the trapdoor was slammed shut and bolted from the other side.

With her hands still tied behind her back, Red had no means of saving herself, and though she tried to regain her balance on the steps, she failed. Luckily she did not have far to fall, and she broke it by landing heavily on her left side into a thin pile of damp, stinking straw. She lay there, too frightened and stunned to move.

Seconds later she received her next shock when a gloomy voice spoke out of the darkness.

“So… she got you too, did she?”

Tanya awoke with a start as the train she was traveling on shook to a halt. She had been dreaming of fairies again. Not the cozy, friendly type portrayed in picture books, but the other type. Ones that did more than pilfer and pinch, and trick and lie. She had been dreaming of fairies that stole away human children, never to be seen again.
Real fairies.

Tanya shook herself and wiped a thin layer of perspiration from her upper lip. She knew better than most that few people believed in fairies these days. Of those who did, even fewer had the ability to see them.

Tanya knew this because she was one of them.

Outside the window the sign on the shabby little platform read T
ICKEY
E
ND
. At her feet, her brown Doberman, Oberon, yawned and scratched, then stood up, sensing that their journey was at an end. Tanya
got up and grabbed her luggage from the rack, then hauled it to the carriage door. As the train emptied of its last few passengers, she squinted through the sunshine, feeling the cool October air hit her warm cheeks, and stepped onto the platform. Oberon followed, eagerly sniffing the air.

“I’ll take that for you, love.”

Tanya allowed the portly attendant to heave her bag from the train, correctly guessing that it wasn’t often he saw thirteen-year-old girls traveling alone from London to Essex. Indeed, this was the first time Tanya had ever traveled alone. Normally, her mother would have driven her, but as their car was in the garage being fixed, Tanya had persisted in being allowed to take the train.

“Back for the holidays?” the attendant asked.

Tanya shook her head. “Just visiting,” she said. “I’m staying with my grandmother for half-term.”