A Witch's Feast (24 page)

Fiona’s bile rose.
Killed?
She wanted to jump over the table and smash Munroe’s perfect face into the remains of her cucumber soup.
 

Dr. Mellior pushed up his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Let’s take a step back. The circetomaniacs are receiving appropriate treatment for their condition as determined by our new laws. Their location is a secret for your own good. They are dangerous until rehabilitated.
If
they can be rehabilitated.”

 
“Not everyone can,” Munroe’s mother added. “The evil runs too deep in some, and we deal with them in our own way.”
 

 
Fiona swallowed hard.
What way?
By Munroe’s side, Tobias’s expression betrayed nothing, his face and shoulders a mask of composure. Only his dark eyes hinted at unease, darting to the door every few seconds. He was
waiting
for something—Fiona was sure of it. Munroe inched closer to him, a pale hand edging toward his arm.
 

Mrs. Ranulf’s lips twitched in a tight-lipped smile.
“Now let’s not ruin our lunch with all of this negative energy. Mr. Ranulf will arrive soon, and we all have tonight’s party to prepare for. They’re setting up tents and tables in the back gardens as we speak. I trust you’ve all completed your masks?”

Fiona nodded, schooling her face into a pleasant expression.
I’ll have to glue some more flowers on that piece of crap later.
 

“And you’ve all found outfits?” Munroe’s mother continued, crumpling up her napkin and tossing it into her bowl.

Munroe smiled. “I found a suit for Tobias that will fit him perfectly. He’s going to look amazing. He’ll be fire, and I’ll be ice.”
 

Fiona suppressed a groan.
An ice princess. Of course.

Sadie beamed. “She looks amazing in her gown. I’m going as ice also.”

 
Munroe frowned. “You can’t be ice. That’s my idea. I’ll lend you my blue gown. You can be water.” Her gray eyes swerved to Fiona. “You’re probably the wrong shape for my dresses, sorry.”
 

And there was that soup-smashing image again.
 

“What are you wearing, Fiona?” Mrs. Ranulf cocked her head. “You can’t wear one of your cartoon T-shirts.”
 

 
“I have a wildflower theme planned. But I don’t have a dress.”

Mrs. Ranulf waved a hand. “You can look through the clothing trunks in the basement. There are some suits down there for the boys, and my mother-in-law left some of her dresses.” A breathy laugh. “God knows what they look like, but they’ll be better than a cat shirt.”
 

“Sounds good, Mrs. Ranulf,” Fiona managed. Forcing a smile, she imagined, for a moment, that the mystery spell might turn all the Ranulfs into rats.
 

*
 
*
 
*

Fiona stood in front of the mirror in her room. She’s spent fifteen minutes rooting around in a trunk in the basement, digging through ruffled orange and pink monstrosities, before she’d grabbed an unassuming beige dress. If she couldn’t wear something pretty, at least she’d wear something bland.
 

As she stared at herself, she wondered if she should have gone for one of the frilly, pumpkin-colored dresses. Her gown smelled of mothballs, and the hem sagged midway down her calves. It had no waist, lending her the appearance of a soggy teabag. A teabag wearing sneakers. If Mariana had been here, they could have had a good laugh about this. She suddenly missed her friend terribly.
 

She gripped her hairbrush.
This isn’t about dresses and parties.
The masquerade would provide the perfect opportunity to search the premises while all the Purgators were distracted. And Mrs. Ranulf’s behavior the other night suggested she could be easily distracted in the presence of cocktails.
 

Just as she was trying to brush her unruly hair into submission, someone knocked on her door, pushing it open without waiting for an answer.
 

Munroe stood in the doorway. Fiona froze, hairbrush hovering. Munroe wore a delicate, pale blue gown of sheer silk tulle. Her limbs showed through the fabric. Embroidered white leaves snaked around her body, strategically preventing her from revealing anything too scandalous.
 

She leaned against the doorway and folded her arms, looking Fiona up and down. “
That’s
what you decided on? Is this some sort of a joke?”

Fiona gripped her brush, ready to hurl it into Munroe’s face. “It’s vintage, actually.”

“What are you dressed as? A paper bag someone left out in the rain?” She tilted her head. “A
bag
lady! How appropriate.” The peal of laughter was like nails on a chalkboard.

“You’re so funny, Munroe. I can’t wait to join your robotic housewife cult.”

“It’s not a cult,” she snapped. “It’s an ancient religion, and we’ve been protecting people from witchcraft for thousands of years.”

“Yeah, well, you can’t tell a witch from a hole in the ground.” It was out of her mouth before she could stop it.

“What are you even
talking
about?”

Fiona threw down the brush. She began twisting her hair into tidier curls. “Nothing.”
 

“You’re not mad that Tobias is my date, are you? But you can’t possibly think he likes
you
in that way.”

A flicker of amusement warmed Fiona’s face.
Poor thing. She doesn’t realize he’s only using her for information.
“Mad? Why would I be mad?”

“I see the way you look at him. Anyone can see it.”

After working her fingers through her curls, her hair was looking better, at least. She rummaged through Mariana’s makeup, pulling out a tube of ruby red lipstick. “Why are you here, Munroe?” She filled in the crown of her lips.

“Sadie and I are going to be doing our hair and makeup soon, and my mom said I had to invite you to join us.”
 

“No thanks. I’d rather jam a sharpened toothbrush in my eye than listen to Sadie deliberate for two hours about eyeliner.”

“Just as well.” She flicked her hair behind a shoulder. “My mom seems to think you’re something pretty special, but I can’t for the life of me figure out why. And I don’t really know if hair and makeup is going to save…” She waved her hand at Fiona’s outfit. “…whatever is going on there. You might want to take another look in the basement.”
 

Thomas pulled himself through
Eirenaeus’
tunnel on his elbows, his arms aching from breaking through the stone floor in his cell. The air was dry and stale. Stirring up dust, he tried not to cough while he squirmed though the narrow canal. There was no light here, just darkness and claustrophobia.

Jagged pieces of stone jabbed into his back. Couldn’t a brilliant philosopher like
Eirenaeus
have come up with a better escape route? Not that he wasn’t thankful. He was out of the cell. Maybe he’d suffocate in dirt—maybe even run into the mummified remains of old
Eirenaeus
while he was in here. But as long as he could stay out of the guards’ sights, he could escape a grisly fate in Lullaby Square. 

The passage narrowed, and a rough chunk of stone trapped his shoulder. “Bloody hell,” he choked out. He closed his eyes, suddenly overcome by the feeling that he would remain trapped in this hole. His every breath would deplete the oxygen.
 Think calming thoughts. Think of gardens and the seaside…

But his mind was still full of sevens. When he was seven, his mother had left him in the car on a trip to the seaside. It was one of her quests. She’d parked by the beach, the air thick with salt. She’d said it would only be a few minutes—one of the angels was coming for her, and she had to greet him by the ocean. The angel would unlock her powers as the gatekeeper.
 

Thomas had stayed in the car all night, growing cold and thirsty. His stomach had rumbled, and he’d needed a blanket.
I was too scared to get out. Every time the reeds rustled in the wind, I crammed further into the footwell.
He’d calmed himself by reciting all the names of sea creatures he could remember.
 

The next morning, his mother had stumbled back, defeated. All she’d said was, “I got the message wrong,” and they’d driven back to London in a stifling silence. 

“The gatekeeper,” he croaked. “Is that what I’m doing? A fool’s errand?”
No, that’s something different. That one isn’t real. I’m in a magical fortress. 
The thought that the magical fortress was real was so ridiculous that a laugh escaped him. 
Of course. The magical fortress is real. 
His chest shook with laughter, and the rock scratched his shoulder.
 

His laughter dried up.
This tunnel could collapse at any moment.
He inched back again, muscles throbbing, and then rested on his forearms. 
What I wouldn’t give for a pint right now.
 

He had to press on. Oswald was still somewhere in the Iron Tower, suffering God-knew-what. At least that twat Asmodeus had given him a useful nugget of information when he’d gleefully informed Thomas his companion remained imprisoned.  

He rolled onto his back, sucking in his chest before squeezing his arms over his head. Using his feet, he pressed himself through the narrow gap, hands first. The rocks scraped at his skin, tearing his clothes. His body felt hot and cold at the same time, and the rough tunnel walls were like nails on his exposed flesh.
 

Creeping forward, his fingertips grazed something smooth and flat in his path. 
A marble flagstone. 
He’d come to the end of the escape route. Now he only had to hope that no one would see him crawl out. He twisted back onto his stomach, and then edged further toward the stone. He flattened his palms and, with all his remaining strength, pushed it forward. It landed with a cracking sound—rock hitting rock. He froze.
Did anyone hear? How could they not hear that?

He waited, listening for guards. But he heard only the wind whistling against the tower walls outside. No light shone into the tunnel from the opening.

He crawled forward, extending his arms to feel around outside the tunnel as he emerged. A stone floor lay a foot below the opening. Pulling himself out on aching arms, he tumbled onto the floor. He inhaled deeply. The air was free from dust here, but there was a stale smell, as if the space had been unused for a long time. He smiled and threw back his head. Still on his knees, he mouthed the words, “Thank you,
Eirenaeus
.”

He stood, stretching his hand into the darkness to feel a cold stone wall. He stumbled as the floor disappeared below his foot for a moment. He gripped the wall, steadying himself as his foot landed lower. He was in the dark landing of a stairwell. 

Up or down? 
He still had to find Oswald in this tower. And torture chambers were rarely in the penthouse suites. He ran his hands along the dusty walls as he descended. The stairwell must be the forgotten architecture left over from before they’d built the portals. He shambled down over the uneven stairs, one story after another. The wind must have picked up outside, and it howled against the tower walls. It seemed to grow louder the further he descended.

 
How many sea creatures could he name? He gritted his teeth.
I don’t need to do that now. I need to stay focused on finding Oswald.

There was something unnatural about the sound of the wind. It sounded—almost human. A cold sweat beaded his forehead. It
was
human. It was Oswald.
 

Oswald’s cries pierced through a heavy wooden door to the stairwell, and the sound made his knees buckle. In the darkness, he grappled around for a doorknob. He found none, only a locked metal latch on the door. He slid the latch across—slowly, so no one would hear—and pushed on the door. There were no windows here, only a few guttering candles that cast flickering shadows over the grimy walls. As his eyes adjusted, Thomas saw a figure standing in a bare stone room.
 

The man wore black robes, and he gripped something in his hand, pointing it at a table. Thomas’s heart stumbled when he moved closer. Oswald lay on the table, his back arched in agony. His wrists and feet were bound with iron manacles, and his anguished groans echoed off the stone ceiling.
 

Thomas tiptoed closer, eyeing Oswald’s torturer. It was Asmodeus, using some kind of knife on his flesh. He held it in the coals of a brazier before bringing it back to Oswald.
Jesus Christ.

“It’s interesting to do this without magic,” the Theurgeon cooed. “Most Theurgeons don’t like to get their hands dirty, but I thought it would be a bit of
fun
.”

An anguished cry tore from Oswald, and the candlelight wavered over his contorted features. He wrenched his eyes open wide, staring at the ceiling.
To do this without magic…
That meant even Asmodeus’s magic didn’t work here, which gave Thomas a fighting chance.

A wooden rack of sharp metal instruments lay on the floor near the Theurgeon. Among them were long iron rods, pointed at the end.
I don’t even want to know what those are for
. Thomas crouched, his breath catching in his throat as he stooped to pick one of them up, taking care not to rattle the rack.