Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters (24 page)

Fred guided
Nettle through the hole in the Thicket. She was too stunned to
speak. This side of the Thicket was much like the other, just more
trees.

Beyond the
Thicket, waiting beside the twisted trunk of an oak tree, were two
strangers enshrouded in shadow. Children, judging by their size.
Her father greeted them with a hasty wave. Willoughby arced lazily
above, but when he saw the strangers he flew straight to them and
landed on one of their shoulders.

Nettle shook
her dazed head. “You said you’ve never been beyond the
Thicket.”

“
It’s true, I haven’t.”

“
How…? Why did it do that?”

“
Because of you,” Her father answered. “It wouldn’t part for
me.”

Her lashes
batted with confusion, “But you knew it would for me?”

“
I did. I needed you to get me here. Willoughby carried a
message from Aunt Thistle’s friends. She’s in trouble.”

He stopped near the entrance of the Thicket. “Stay here,”
he order Nettle. She gave him a look that said
like-hell
and strode out before him. Fred
scrambled to catch up.

As she approached the pair, Nettle realized they were a
young man and woman, a fair bit shorter than herself and though
they appeared to be only a few years older, there was something
about them that suggested otherwise. They wore an outfit, leggings
and tunic, of a light silvery fabric so fine and delicate Nettle
wondered what it could be. It moved with them, stretching and
breathing as if it were a second skin.
Spider webbing?
“What are they?”

“
Sprites.” Fred answered.

Oddly, they
seemed distantly familiar, as if she’d met them before.

The strangers,
acted as though they knew her. Both shared an alarmed glance before
their gaze rested back on her with recognition. They had unusual
features, deep inset eyes, sharp and an unnatural blue, an overly
bright aquamarine that almost seemed to glow in the moon’s light.
The young man cocked his head, the jarring movement like that of a
bird, and he stepped rapidly toward her. Nettle saw his feet were
bare and extremely long. He stood tiptoed as he approached.

Nettle quickly
stepped back and found herself flattened against her father. Her
heart skittered and the hairs on her arms prickled uneasily as he
came right up to her. He smelt of freshly turned earth. His nose
was slender and beaklike with thick feathered eyebrows that swept
upward and thinned. His cheekbones were honed and he had a small
mouth with short blunt teeth.

He cocked his
head at Fred, his eyebrow arched with intensity. His voice, when he
spoke, sounded melodic. “What is she doing here? Tell me, you
haven’t brought Bramble as well?”

“
He’s at the cottage,” replied Fred, his own voice hard and
Nettle detected, regretful. “I had no choice.”

Willoughby
perched on the shoulder of the young woman. His claws dug into her
flesh but it didn’t seem to bother her. She approached Nettle, much
like the other, birdlike and alien. Their ethereal features were so
much alike, they had to be siblings, twins perhaps. Her thin lips
broke into a smile and she embraced Nettle with long spindly arms.
“My you’ve grown, as quick as a sapling.” Like her companion, her
widow-peaked hair was matted and knotted into dreadlocks and
threaded throughout was a collection of leaves and feathers, moth
wings, and chestnuts.

It suddenly came back to Nettle where she’d met them. Here,
at the cottage. She had a vague recollection of hot summer nights,
and her mother lazing on the porch with her sister and these
friends, not realising she was hiding on the stairwell listening to
their easy banter. Aunt Thistle’s companions, what were their names
again?
Lula... Rory...
“The Woodstock Twins…” she exclaimed, remembering
the name her mother gave them.

“
Oh, she does remember us!” Lula cried, clapping her hands
together.

“
She shouldn’t be here,” snapped her brother. “It’s far too
dangerous. Please tell me Bramble is at least safe.”

Fred’s silence
spoke volumes and the young man muttered something under his breath
that Nettle didn’t quite catch.

“She’s
nearly of age,” her father replied in defence. “What was I supposed
to do? Her mother was supposed to be the one handling this. Thistle
- she’s the next best thing.”

“
She shouldn’t be here. I never agreed with your decision to
bind her heritage.”

Nettle tensed, casting a inquisitive look upon her
father,
whatever did that mean?
“What’s going on? What aren’t you telling
me?” Besides the strangeness of the Woodstock Twins, Rory’s
distress had unnerved her. There was something else at play
here.

Fred’s gaze
locked with the younger man’s, ignoring Nettle. “What’s happened to
Thistle?”

It was Lula
who answered, her voice sweetly soft, “She sent word she needed to
see us, to tell us something important she’d discovered. When she
failed to meet with us, we tracked her trail, and learnt she’d been
captured.”

“
Who?” Her father paled and stilled. “Not Solstace
Wittle?”

“
No.” Rory assured quickly. “Not her. A troll. We don’t know
why-”

“
What do you mean a troll?” Nettle interjected. “Why would
Aunt Thistle be abducted? By a troll?” Tonight was getting weirder
and weirder.

Rory bobbed
his head to Nettle, and shirked his shoulders. He couldn’t answer,
he didn’t know. He spoke next to Fred. “We can speak more on the
way.”

Lula wound her
arms about Nettle again. “It gladdens my heart to see you again,
young Blackthorn, so much like your father. Rest assured, we’ll
take care of him, you’ll see your father again, and your aunt.”
Nettle wasn’t so sure. She had a sick feeling in the pit of her
stomach that this was the last time she would see her father.

“
Come along.” Fred walked Nettle back through the opening of
the Thicket. The Woodstock Twins remained on the other
side.

“
What’s going on Dad?”

He flicked a
glance at his companions and pushed his glasses back to the bridge
of his nose. “You heard, your aunt’s been abducted. I have to help
find her.”

“
Why you, Dad? Can’t someone else do it?” Nettle was really
worried now. The last thing she wanted her father to do was enter
the Forgotten Wilds. “Please, don’t leave us.”

Her plea
squeezed his heart, and for a brief moment he wanted so much to do
as she wished. But he couldn’t.

She’d braided
her hair for the night and a stray lock had come free. He tucked it
behind her ear. “I’m sorry Nettle, I wish I didn’t have to, but I
do. I’ll be gone for a few days, three at the most. While I’m gone
you’re in charge.”

“
Me?” Nettle’s eyes fluttered wider and her mouth drooped
unhappily. “Jazz is going to love that.”

“
Jazz may be older, but you’re more resourceful and mostly
reliable.”

Nettle almost
smiled. Fred took her hands and gently squeezed them. “If, for some
reason, I’m not back in three days time, you must take the others
straight to Jazz’s parents.” He stared at her over the tops of his
glasses. “Straight away Nettle. You are not, under any
circumstances, to be here on All Hallows’ Eve.”

“
But why?” She just didn’t understand what was so fearful
about Halloween.

“
Halloween is a night known for high-jinks and spooks for a
reason. Here in the Forgotten Wilds… well… its…” He rubbed his
chin, struggling to relay his thoughts. “It’s an extremely powerful
time of year. It rouses those in the Wilds more than usual. For us,
its always been a time to hunker down for the night. Even with the
copse protecting the cottage, I just don’t like the idea of you
kids being alone on Halloween.”

He slipped a
hand into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small journal. It was
the journal he’d been scribbling notes into when she found him in
the library a few days ago. He pressed it into her hand. “I’ve
written as much as I can about the Forgotten Wilds in here. While
I’m away, take the time to read it, and when I get back we’ll talk
more.”

Nettle poked
the journal into a pocket in her parka. Her father was shrugging
the backpack from his shoulders and she saw that there was
something strapped to the pack - two shortswords. He unstrapped one
of the swords and unsheathed it from its leather scabbard. The
blade glinted coldly in the light. The sword was forged from iron,
the blade sharp and elegantly curved, and the pommel bound with
fish-skin. “This was your mothers. It was made for her by a friend
and specifically made for our family. No one else can wield
it.”

He sheathed
the sword and handed it to her. Nettle blinked with astonishment.
She wasn’t expecting to be given a sword of all things, by her
father no-less. “Why would I need this?” The shortsword felt
surprisingly light.

“
I know you don’t know how to use it. I wish I’d given you a
few lessons, but I never thought I’d need to. Regardless, it would
make me feel better that you had it.”

“You know how to use a sword?” She almost snorted,
ridiculous.

In an
impressive display Fred deftly swung the sword, the blade whistling
as it cut through the air dangerously close to his body as he arced
it back and forth either side of him, before parrying.

Nettle was
stunned silent.

“
Times are a little precarious for us Blackthorns’ right now.
So promise me, if I’m not back in three days time, you’ll
leave.”

She nodded, “OK Dad.” Her stomach roiled.
What did he mean
precarious?

Fred shifted uneasily. He looked suddenly old and jaded and
unnerved. “I wish I’d been more open with you about your mother and
our family.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I just wasn’t sure
what to do, what to tell you…”
Fred blew out a deep breath, he didn’t
know if he was doing the right thing, but felt he had no choice. “I
have to go, Nettle. In the meantime, stay at the cottage, don’t
talk to strangers and do not go to Olde Town. The less people who
know you’re here, the better. Promise me.”

Nettle nodded, her mind reeling and her heart
breaking,
but what about Claudine?

“
Promise?” Fred urged.

Nettle was
shaken by the desperation in his gaze. “I promise, Dad. OK.” Her
voice was thin and reedy. It sounded like someone else spoke. She
threw her arms around him and he pulled her in for a hug.

“
I’m sorry for leaving like this. When I get back I’ll explain
everything.” He kissed her forehead. “I love you kid,” he
whispered, his voice breaking.

She squeezed
him tighter, pressing her face into his jacket and smelling his
familiar scent of wood chips. Her voice was muffled, “Love you too
Dad.”

He pulled
away, his warmth faded and she felt cold and anxious.

As he walked
off, he turned and said, “When we have word on your aunt, we’ll
send a message to you with Willoughby.” He lifted his hand to wave
and his sleeve dropped slightly revealing a strange angry rash on
his wrist. Raised welts, in a shape that reminded Nettle of the
number thirteen.

Flanked by the
Woodstock twins, he swept into the murky depth beyond the Thicket.
And a moment later, he was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Jazz
takes Charge

For the first
time since being back at the cottage, the autumn sky – an intense
azure blue - was free of cloud and wind. Nettle briefly closed her
eyes, basking in the sun’s warmth as it streamed in through the
kitchen window, trying her best to ignore the frosty tension that
radiated from Jazz who sat across from her at the dining table,
scowling darkly. She sighed quietly, prying her eyes open one at a
time. Her cousin, mumbling under her breath, wasn’t easy to
ignore.

Jazz glared at Nettle across the dining table. “I don’t
understand. Why are
you
in charge? I’m the oldest. Uncle Fred should have put me in
charge.” Her eyes narrowed into slits and she added suspiciously,
“Maybe he did, and you just don’t want to tell me.” Jazz made a
movement as if to toss her red locks over her shoulder. Except,
Jazz didn’t have any hair anymore. She froze as she realised why
that motion hadn’t of felt quite right.

Nettle cringed and thought with dread,
oh-no
,
here we go,
and mentally braced herself. She watched
her cousin’s eyes grow wider and wider in her pale pretty face, and
at the same time her eyelids became narrow and angular with
unabated rage. To Jazz’s credit - and Nettle’s amazement - she
began to collect herself. It was like watching an overly full jug
with boiling water spluttering and spitting from its spout being
pulled off the stove. She very slowly drew a St. Miriam’s woollen
hat out of her pocket and pulled it down tightly over her harrowing
haircut and by the time she’d finished she was somewhat
calm.

Nettle
felt the best thing to do was to say nothing until Jazz spoke
first.

The spriggan had other ideas. “Listen to yer cousin
baldy.
If he had, he’d of
told you,” came from above. Bram had moved the bird-cage back to
the warm kitchen after Claudine had left, and discovered besides
creepy-crawlies the spriggan had acquired a taste for
Nutella.