Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters (54 page)

“
Right - lightning - at my sister.” He tentatively touched
Jazz’s arm and that seemed to snap her out of it. “Are you
OK?”

Jazz blinked
at her cousin, but she spoke to Jack. “Just what exactly is a
Witches Curse?”

He gave a
half-hearted kind of shrug and tucked his hands into his pockets.
“It’s a branding of sorts. It’s much like being owned by a witch.
When the witch calls, you have no option but to go directly to
them, and do whatever they command.”

Jazz pushed up
the sleeve of her jersey and showed him her forearm. She asked in a
small voice. “Is this one?”

On her arm was something Nettle had seen before up in
Claudine’s bedroom, but this time it was defined. It was a name
repeated down Jazz’s arm.
Claudine Adeline Balfrey – Claudine Adeline
Balfrey – Claudine Adeline Balfrey.
The flesh around the Curse looked sick,
the veins were black, the skin a mottled green.

“
Ah, yes,” said Jack nodding slowly, bringing his startled
gaze to meet Jazz’s. “That’s a Curse.”

Jazz gulped.
She looked anxiously at Bram who turned to Nettle, his blue eyes
imploring her. “We need to do something.”

“
You need to remove it.” Nettle demanded of Jack, jabbing a
finger into his shoulder.

He frowned. “I
don’t have that kind of talent.”

“
But I thought you said that the sisters were, like, low level
magic users?” Nettle’s voice sounded panicky even to
herself.

“
Yes, they are,” the goblin drawled, “But someone with darker
and older magic than they possess is teaching them the ways of the
Wilds.”

A fragment of
memory came to Nettle about Margot. Her long fingers fluttered as
she struggled to remember. “Margot was talking with something… in
the Atelier!”

“Yes?” Jack urged rolling a hand as if to say –
quick-quick.

“
It was this crazy ball of bugs, but they were speaking,
telling her what to do.”

Jazz pulled a
creeped-out face. “Talking bugs?”

“
No, not the bugs,” she said to Jazz as she began pacing the
room. “The way they were working together allowed someone to talk
through them. Margot was telling whoever it was about some sort of
machine reaching the Heart.” She turned to Jack. “Is that what’s
buried in your goblin mound?”

He nodded.
“They’ve almost reached it. And trust me, you don’t want them to
reach it.”

Bram was still
thinking about Jazz. “What if we tie her up, or lock her in a room?
She won’t be able to go to them then.”

Jack gave an
apologetic grimace. “That’s been tried before. I’ve seen an
ensorcelled fae chew off their own hand to free themselves to go to
their master. There’s only one way to reverse the spell and that’s
to steal back from the Balfrey’s whatever it is they have of
yours.”

Jazz looked
stricken. She spun immediately to Nettle. “What is it? What do you
think they have of mine?” There was a frantic hitch to her
voice.

Nettle shook
her head. She had no idea. It could be anything.

“
Do you think Claudine stole it when she was here visiting
us?” Bram suggested.

Something tugged at Nettle’s memory. An image, a memory, of
something crisp and white with a lock of red hair. “No…” she said
carefully. “Barber Tuttlebee.” Her gaze whipped towards Bram’s.
“Remember, he came into the tea house and gave Claudine an
envelope…” Her fingers flew to her mouth. She gasped. “Oh, no…”
Then mentally groaned,
what have I done?

Bram was
immediately by her side. “What is it?”

“
I saw the envelope up in the Atelier.” A sick feeling crashed
over Nettle and sweeping behind it, guilt. She’d had a chance to
take the envelope with Jazz’s hair stuffed inside, but she
hadn’t.

Jazz grabbed
hold of Nettle’s jacket, her fingers knotted in the material. Her
gaze looked unhinged. “I’ve got to get it back!”

“
We will, Jazz. I promise.” The promise felt hollow, and she
knew Jazz knew it too. Suddenly her cousin’s expression crumbled
and she pushed herself away and ran from the kitchen, her shoulders
hunched, a hand wiping at her eyes. Nettle’s gaze followed her out
of the room. What were they going to do?

Jack’s voice lazily said,
“I’ll strike a deal with you, if you like.
I’ll help you - if you help me. That’s essentially why I’m
here.”

Nettle turned
back to him, frowning. He was casually leaning against the kitchen
bench with an air of indifference about him.

“‘
Ere,” Quary interrupted, his mouth full of Nutella. “What do
you want with her?”

Jack leisurely
pushed himself from the bench. “The Balfrey’s have spells all over
Olde Town, restricting access all over the place, in particular the
tea house and their personal quarters.” He jerked his head at
Nettle. “She’s able to trespass where I cannot.”

“
The Atelier,” Nettle sagely guessed.

“
What’s that?” Bram asked, looking up at her. He’d drawn
close, reaching out to hold her hand.

“
Their lair,” Nettle softly explained.

“
I need to know how, exactly, the sisters are intending to
perform their ritual. Now is the time to strike. They’ll not be
expecting it.”

It made sense
and she couldn’t bear waiting any longer.

“
But what about the sisters’ magic? You haven’t explained what
they can do?” Bram asked concerned.

“
There’s little they cannot do.” Jack said. “But your sister
has her bracelet and the best way to combat their spells, is by
simply avoiding them. They’re still preoccupied with gaining the
last few things for tomorrow so we should be able to sneak into the
Atelier before they throw their defences up.” He spoke to Nettle.
“You steal back Jazz’s hair, find out as much as you can about
their spell and what they need. Pocket anything you think will
upset their cause and in return, I’ll rescue your
father.”

She considered him for a moment, he stared back at her, his
eyes glittering with self-assurance. Could she trust him? He had
assisted her – I guess
saved
if I were truthful - several times already, and
really she had no other choice. She gave a brusque nod. “OK. Let me
get a few things. You,” she said while pointing at Quary, who
startled at her stern tone, “Look after my brother while I’m
gone.”

Nettle bolted
up the staircase to her bedroom and found her sword. She wasn’t
going into Olde Town without some form of protection. She slipped
in into her rucksack along with a few other items, including the
Swiss Army knife her father gave to her on her ninth birthday, and
her skipping rope – maybe she might need to climb out of something
or tie something up. She quickly changed into new clothes,
selecting muted shades of grey and a pair of worn weathered boots
with a softer sole, better for sneaking around.

As she wound
her long hair into a messy topknot, a thought swiftly came to her -
a camera - it’d be easier and faster to take photographs of the
sisters’ Atelier and any clues she might find.

It had been a
very, very long time since Nettle had last been in her parent’s
bedroom, and judging by the fact the bed was covered in dust, her
father hadn’t slept here either, merely dumping his gear in the
corner of the room.

She rummaged
through his bags until she found what she was looking for – his
camera. She tucked it into the side pocket of her rucksack, and for
a moment stood quietly in the room.

It was a
simple rustic room with a four poster bed her father had carved
into the likeness of a tree-top canopy with gauzy green curtains
hanging at either post. Beside the wardrobe were two oak tallboys
with photographs of her parents in simple wooden frames. Nettle
drifted over, picking one up. With a fingertip she gently cleaned
the glass free of the thick layer of fluffy dust. Her mother’s face
smiled back at her.

Oh mum
, she thought,
I miss you.

Her mind wandered down to the living room. When they’d
arrived earlier this week, the ransacked room looked like the scene
of a fight.
Jack had said those scorch marks had been made by someone
from the Wilds...
The same night their mother had abandoned them, so had they
abandoned the cottage. Her father had bundled her and her baby
brother up, and they’d left, taking little with them. An idea began
to take shape in her mind.

What if mum
hadn’t abandon-

A noise
startled her, scattering her thoughts. Rumbling. It was coming from
outside and it sounded like an engine.

When she came
back downstairs, the front door was wide open.

She ran outside, her heart thumping in her chest, and a
hand reaching up for the pommel of her sword.
Had someone come? Was everyone
all right?

She came to a
stand-still out on the front porch. Her rapid heart-beat eased and
she lowered her hand. The engine noise was Bessie.

The motor-home
sat in the driveway, rumbling. Wisps of mist rose from the dewy
ground and made Bessie look as though she was hovering over a
cloud. Her door was open and as she approached, Nettle could see
Bram was standing on the driver’s seat facing Bessie’s interior. He
was arguing with Quary, who sat astride his rooster.

Jack nonchalantly leaned against Bessie’s side. He gave a
shrug and one corner of his mouth tugged upward, as if to
say,
I
couldn’t stop them.

Nettle gave
the goblin an irritated glare. “You could have tried harder,” she
said before stomping up the steps into Bessie. She kicked out at
the rooster who squawked and jerked away, almost unseating Quary,
who cried out, “Oi!”

The spriggans
had been quite busy while she was upstairs. The couch was piled
high with a variety of pouches and random items - what Nettle could
only assume was their stolen hoard. Even the battered suitcase full
of Nutella had found itself inside the motor-home. They’d fitted
themselves up with all manner of weapons they could stuff into
their belts or slide into their boots or strap to their backs. Roq
looked like a walking armoury. He was squatting down in the drivers
foot-well, in between the brake and accelerator, testing the pedals
by lowering them one at a time. Sandee assisted Egnatius into the
seat at the dinette, placing cushions around him to make him
comfortable.

“
No, no, no, no,” Nettle said, shaking her head, a few
tendrils had come loose from her top-knot. There was no way her
little brother was going to come on something this dangerous. But
Bram wore that same expression of their father’s that brook no
argument. Nettle’s hands had curled into fists by her side and her
mouth pinched together, determined to win this fight. “I’m going,
alone. You stay here with Jazz. The spriggans will stay and guard
her, and protect you at the same time.” She raised a fist, a finger
uncurling to point outside Bessie. “Burban and the copse have got
the perimeter.” But she knew as she spoke, he had made up his mind
already. It was pointless arguing with him.

Bram frowned
at her. “We can’t leave her. We can’t run. She’ll only find a way
to get back to the Balfreys when they call for her.”

Spix sat on
top of the driver's headrest, dangling his legs over the side. He
gave a perplexed glance sideways as Jazz’s voice came from behind
Nettle.

“
Bram’s right. Even if you don’t save me, I can help for as
long as I can.” Nettle half-turned and saw that Jazz stood just
outside the door to Bessie, one foot resting on the first step. The
gloom of the day had drawn stark shadows about her, carving her
expression into stoic determination.

“
And you don’t need to worry about me. I’ve got this,” Bram
said dangling his wrist with the Blackthorn bracelet before her.
“Besides, the spriggans have taught me a thing or two,” and his
mouth twisted into a wry grin. “While you steal into the Atelier,
Jazz and I can help break Dad out of Madam Bawdsworths.”

“
Who’s going to drive?!” Nettle protested, her thick brows
drawing together at the audacity of his plan.

“
It’s an automatic, how hard can it be?” Jazz
scowled.

Nettle gave an
exasperated growl, squaring her shoulders at her cousin. “You’ve
had a chauffeur drive you everywhere your entire life, how would
you even know.”

“
Like, who cares.” Jazz snapped back. She gave Bram a pointed
look. “Can you drive us there?”

“
Of course,” he said, with a little look of annoyance that his
capabilities were in question. “I mean, I can’t reach the peddles,”
he amended, poking his glasses back up his nose. “But Roq is going
to take care of that. I just have to steer, right?”

Jazz angled a sarcastic look at Nettle, silently asking
–
satisfied?

Nettle’s jaw
clenched and she sawed it back and forth. She could have ordered
them out, but she knew when she’d lost a battle. “All right,” she
ground out, defeated, “Lets get going.”

Jazz stepped
into Bessie. She hefted her hockey stick up and rested it on her
shoulder. The wedge was studded all over with bent and twisted
nails.

Quary, still
astride his rooster, gave an impressed whistle. “ ‘Ere girly, you
look like one of us.”

Jazz’s voice was a whispery threat as she leaned low to
give the spriggan a menacing glower. “No one messes with
my
family, and no one
abducts
my
Uncle Fred and gets away with it.” Quary gave a little gulp
and urged his rooster to step back to allow Jazz to slide into the
seat across from Egnatius and Sandee, who’s gleeful mad smirk
hadn’t left her face since boarding the motor-home.