Fire Girl (20 page)

T
he alley wound between stone-and-timber tenement buildings. A single lantern hung from a wall, casting a feeble light that made the shadows
deeper.
Another sign of life,
Hazel thought.

Ahead was a gateway with a wrought-iron sign arching over the top: ‘Garden of the Dead – South Entrance’.

‘Just when you think things can’t get any gloomier,’ Bramley said, ‘we end up in a Garden of the Dead.’ He paused. ‘What exactly
is
a Garden of the
Dead?’

‘No idea.’ Hazel stepped warily under the arch and out into a moonlit cemetery.

‘Ah, I should have guessed.’ Bramley sighed.

Using the goggles, Hazel followed the glowing green footprints up an avenue towards a large church with a clock tower. Rows of crypts, tombs and sarcophagi spread out in all directions, the pale
stone bathing in moonlight and cut deep with shadows. A weeping stone angel gazed down with sorrowful eyes; Hazel sped past, half expecting it to move.

They had nearly reached the church when Hazel heard a swallowing sound followed by a loud belch. She ducked behind a tombstone and peeked out.

‘What,’ Bramley whispered, ‘is
that
?’

Hazel raised the goggles. ‘It’s a demon. I recognize it from that book David showed me – a Shabriri, I think it was called. But what’s it doing just sitting by the
door?’

The demon bobbed up and down in a puddle of its own drool – at least Hazel assumed it was drool – licking its lips with a long black tongue. With its bulging eyes and green, warty
skin, it resembled an overgrown toad.

‘It looks like it’s guarding the church.’

‘Or guarding someone
inside
the church. It could be Ma.’ Hazel’s heart quickened.

‘I suppose it’s worth a look,’ Bramley said. ‘But how can we get past that Shabby-whatsit?’

Hazel grinned and pulled something out of her bag. ‘Do you think I’ve just been lugging this around for fun?’ she asked. Moonlight flashed on brass and silver.

Bramley squinted at it. ‘The Grinder? Do you know how it works?’

Hazel turned it over in her hands. ‘I
think
so . . .’

She poked her head around the edge of the tomb to study the Shabriri. An oily, fishy stink drifted in the air.
Does every demon have its own smell?
she wondered.
And are they always
horrible?

The Shabriri’s bulbous eyes followed a moth as it blundered around the lantern hooked over the church door. Faster than sight, the demon flicked out its tongue, caught the moth and pulled
it into its mouth. Hazel grimaced as it crunched, swallowed and burped.

She put the Grinder on the ground. ‘I need to enter the description. Shabriri is a
daemon-minimus
, so I press this lever. There . . .’ Mechanisms inside the Grinder clicked
and whirred. ‘Now, what are these levers? “Weight”, “Height” and, er, “Disposition”. What does “disposition” mean?’

‘It means something’s “propensity” or “constitution”,’ Bramley said smugly.

Hazel gave him a stern tap on the nose. ‘I don’t know what they mean either.’

‘Ignoramus,’ Bramley muttered. ‘In words simple enough for
you
, “disposition” also means “temper”, or “mood”.’

‘Thank you.’ Hazel said. ‘Well, it’s just eaten, so I think the closest match is “Content”.’ She set the Grinder’s levers using her best guesses,
hoping that the demon’s ears –
assuming it even has ears
, she thought – weren’t sharp enough to hear. Then, as carefully as she could, she pushed it out into the
avenue.

‘Here we go . . .’ She pressed the ‘Set Trap’ lever then ducked back behind the gravestone. She stifled a yelp of surprise as five hinged brass levers tipped with blades
rose out from the bowl-like centre of the Grinder and settled on the ground. With precise movements they scratched a five-pointed star filled with swirling patterns and writing into the stone.

‘A magic circle,’ Hazel whispered. ‘How amazing!’ She couldn’t imagine how a man like Titus could have made such a delicate contraption.

As the legs retracted back inside, the magic circle glowed and began to emit a thrumming that Hazel felt vibrating in her chest.
It must be letting off the aura that David told me about.
Unable to resist, she peeked out to see what the demon was doing.

‘Careful,’ Bramley said.

‘Calm down, it can’t see me.’

‘Don’t be foolish,’ said Bramley. ‘If
you
can see it,
it
can see you.’

Hazel pretended to ignore him but she did duck back a bit. With one eye, she watched the Shabriri stand up and sniff the air. The magic circle under the Grinder glowed even more brightly.

Come on, little fishy
, Hazel thought.
Take the bait
.

The demon let out a thunderous burp and jumped high into the air with its powerful back legs. Hazel watched in fascinated horror as the Shabriri flew towards them and landed with a slap right
next to the Grinder. She shrank back from its rotten-fish stench.

A green strand of drool leaked from its mouth and dangled like a pendulum as it leaned over to look inside. Hazel jumped as hinged blades sprang from the heart of the Grinder, plunging into the
Shabriri and pulling it head first towards the rotating cogs at its centre. Within seconds the struggling demon was ground down to nothing more than a odorous pile of mashed flesh and bone.

‘Well,’ Bramley said, ‘that was
disgusting
.’

‘It worked though,’ Hazel said, glowing with pride. ‘I actually did it.’ For the first time since leaving the Glade she felt as if she had really succeeded at
something.

Hazel picked her way towards the Grinder and peered inside as the cogs slowed down and stopped. The blades were smeared with reeking oil, as was the ground around the device. Nothing remained of
the demon; its earthly body had been destroyed and its soul flung back to the Underworld. ‘Should we take the Grinder with us?’ she wondered.

‘Do you want to smell like a dead fish?’

Hazel nodded. ‘Let’s leave it.’

The key to the church was in the keyhole. Hazel lifted the lantern from its hook, unlocked the door and with a final backwards glance, slipped inside.

Rebel demonologist Nicolas Murrell has escaped the Tower!

There is a bounty on the head of this enemy of the people.

The
Daily Thunderer
, August 1655

H
azel quietly closed the door and held up the lantern. The roof arched into a grey expanse of cold stone and chilly silence. Moonlight glinted
through stained glass windows.

‘It’s empty.’ Her whisper fluttered around the pillars and up into the roof beams.

Bramley crawled through Hazel’s hair and perched on top of her head.

‘Ouch! Careful – you’re pulling my hair.’

‘Stop fussing,’ Bramley said. ‘So, what is this place?’

‘It’s a church,’ Hazel said, walking slowly down the aisle. ‘Ma told me about them. Every town has one.’

‘Oh. What are they for?’

‘I’m not sure exactly. It’s a sort of meeting place, I think. For singing and talking. And, er . . . worship. I think.’ Hazel jumped as a pigeon burst out from under a
pew and disappeared into the rafters.

‘Who do they worship?’ Bramley asked, crawling back into her hair. ‘It’s a bit gloomy . . .’

‘Enough questions, Bram. I’m trying to think
.
’

‘No good asking you anyway, is it?’ Bramley huffed. ‘You don’t know
anything
.’

Hazel sighed. He was right – there was so much about this land, and her mother’s past, that she didn’t know. That she might
never
know unless she could find her mother
and escape. They stopped at the edge of a wide area of empty floor reaching towards the back of the church.

Hazel held up her hand. ‘Hush! Can you hear that?’

‘Hear what?’

‘A sort of scratching sound.’ The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. ‘I think it’s coming from . . . under the floor.’

‘Don’t be so sill—’

‘Shh!’ Hazel dropped to her knees and pressed her ear to the cool, gritty flagstones. There it was, scratching, barely an itch on the edge of her hearing, like claws against
stone.

‘There’s something under there.’ She stood up on wobbly legs. The scratching continued. ‘Does this church have a cellar?’

‘Look,’ Bramley said. ‘Everywhere is all dusty, but this bit of floor has been swept clean.’

‘You’re right – a spotless circle. And what’s that?’ She pointed to a white line running around the circumference. ‘It looks like salt.’

‘Something else to add to our tally of strange.’

Hazel wrapped her arms around herself as she crept along the edge of the circle. ‘It’s getting colder, Bram. Can you feel it?’

‘Of course I can,’ Bramley squeaked. ‘Let’s go, can we, please?’

‘One more minute. I want to make sure we haven’t missed anything first.’

The pigeon took off and glided towards the back of the church, cooing softly as it landed on a pulpit. As Hazel followed its flight, a hatch in the wooden ceiling high above caught her eye.
‘Perhaps I could get a better look from up there.’

Careful to stay outside the circle, Hazel sidled along the wall until she reached an arched doorway and a spiralling staircase leading into darkness. She paused for a moment, then started to
climb.

‘Sensible witches listen to their familiars,’ Bramley grumbled.

‘I do listen,’ Hazel said, peering into the gloom. ‘I just choose to ignore you.’

‘Well, how about a bit of light so you don’t fall and break your neck?’

Hazel stopped. ‘You mean . . . use my magic? But what if it hasn’t come back yet?’

‘We just want a light to see by,’ Bramley said. ‘Not burn the place down. Just
try
.’

Hazel imagined a lantern glowing in the dark, and held the image in her mind’s eye. Her cold heart throbbed painfully. ‘I can’t . . .’

‘Listen to me,’ Bramley said. ‘You
can.
All you need is a spark. I know anger is where your magic came from – but other feelings can be powerful too.
Try
again
.’

Hazel shut her eyes and thought of happy memories of her mother, the Glade and Mary. Her heart sent out a tiny pulse of warm magic, and her veins glowed like seams of gold.

One more little push . . .

She yelped with joy as flames burst from her fingers, lighting up the damp walls and, best of all, warming her up. With a mental push she made the flames flare up; and with a gentle pull they
faded. Hazel did a delighted little jig.

‘Not bad,’ Bramley said. ‘Not bad at all.’

Bursting with pride, Hazel held her hands in front of her. Shadows leaped on the walls, dancing to her whim. ‘This feels amazing,’ she breathed. ‘I’m in
control.’

‘All right, bright eyes,’ Bramley said, tugging her ear. ‘We’ve got things to do, remember?’

Hazel grinned. ‘Allow me to light the way.’ She pulled back on her magic until only one hand was gloved in a flickering yellow glow. Keeping to the outside wall where the steps were
widest, she continued to climb until she reached another low doorway. Floorboards creaked as she stepped into a wide, windowless room, seemingly without a ceiling.

‘This must be the bell tower,’ she said, flaring her magic and looking around.

Suspended on wooden mounts far above in the belfry were the church bells. Ropes hung down, swaying in the restive air. A hatch lay open in the middle of the floor. Hazel drew in her magic as she
approached, allowing the flames to shrink and disappear back under her skin. Slowly, carefully, she knelt down and peered over the edge.