Metal and Magic: A Fantasy Journey Read online

  Broom’s right on his tail. “It will not do, sir,” he says. “No, it will not.”

  Broom’s a bit of a loo when it comes to Cat’s “mansion-minders.” I giggle a little. Fire—one of Cat’s biggest “pet” peeves.

  Cat turns back toward me. “Dixxon, you simply must stop. Your attempts at humor are atrocious.”

  Broom snickers with me. “Pet,” he chuckles.

  I know that Cat can read some of my thoughts. . . Broom too?

  Regardless, that slip-up earns him a scoffing glance from Cat. “Do not encourage her,” he says. Then he turns his attention back to the fire. When he’s trying to calm himself down, the little white patch on the tip of his tail, bobs and flits back and forth. “For the eight lives of me left, how I ended up with—repeating myself to a half-witted whisk and nannying a—”

  Broom gasps a little. He’s used to Cat treating him roughly, but rarely does our friend direct his annoyance at me.

  Cat looks over his shoulder and I swear there’s a little guilt in his glowing green eyes. “My apologies, miss. It’s simply. . . This is the third week you’ve awakened this way, and I’m—” He’s turned all the way round now, and in a quick bounce he’s up on the bed next to me, purring. He spins three times to the left, and then sits and cocks his head a little, obviously trying to read into my thoughts again. “I see. Good. . .”

  Broom whisks his way to the edge of my bed and leans in. “Is it the same dream, chérie?” he says. “Just like before?”

  Cat rolls his eyes. “Of course it’s the same, you sweeping willow! Why else would she be screaming for us in the middle of the night?” Then he turns back to me. “Is it the same one, then?”

  “It was horrible, Baxxster,” I say. “She’s burning and screaming and they’s townspeople yelling at her and—”

  “Dreadful,” says Cat. He casts a look of further disapproval toward Broom. “And you. . . There’d be none of this nonsense if you didn’t keep stoking her fire so thoroughly at night. I’d think a broom, made of wood no less, wouldn’t be such a pyromaniac. A bit cannibalistic, you are. Of all the—”

  “Now, Baxxster Boye—”

  Cat whips his gaze back toward me. “Miss, I wish you wouldn’t—as I’ve informed you, there has only ever been one I’ve enjoyed hearing that name from, and she is, sadly—”

  “I’m. . . My apologies,” I tell him. The loss of Cat’s one and only is the sole thing I’ve seen him truly lament. Though the details are not subject for our tea-time chats.

  “No, they are not,” he says, having finally pushed his furry little way into my head. “What will be the subject of our next chat, is your birthday—something a little more festive than all this ‘burning woman in the forest’ nonsense.”

  I sit up straighter in bed and lean forward toward Cat. “It’s not nonsense,” I say. I cross my arms, cock my head to the side, and raise my eyebrows at him. “And it’s as real as . . . as the Black Lake and Bile Island . . . and—”

  “Oh, don’t say it, chérie,” says Broom.

  “Miss,” Cat says, “you mustn’t tempt—”

  I purse my lips and raise my eyebrows a little at them both. “And the Cauldron Council, for that matter.” That should get him. I’m a bit annoyed, because I know there’s something he’s not telling me about my birthday. And he’s making a particular point of ignoring my dreams. . . “I just don’t know how many more nights of those flames I can—” I stop myself and look at Broom.

  He looks away and hangs his handle a little.

  “That’s not what I meant, Broom,” I say. “And never mind him, my savior in sweeping armor. I’m nice and cozy every night thanks to you.” I look back at Cat and gently shove him from under the covers with my knee. He really must ease up on Broom. “Because these dreams have nothing to do with my fire being too hot, do they?”

  “Dixxon,” Cat says, and then he pauses. It’s rare because he’s never without something to say. But after a few seconds of me staring and Broom fidgeting, Cat finds his tongue again. “First . . . witches do not dream.” Then he stands up on the bed and takes two steps toward Broom, stopping with one paw slightly raised up. This is his authority stance, threatening to take a swipe at Broom’s handle, and none of us wants—“Fetch the tea and biscuits, sir,” he says. “She’s not going back to sleep any time soon.”

  “Right,” says Broom, and he heads toward the fire. He waves a bristle at the wood stack and a big round log lifts up, floats over, and hurls itself into the fireplace. Orange sparks fly up into the flue and the flames leap after them, and then Broom swishes toward the door. He holds an arm up above his head. “I’ll get the tea.” Then he’s gone and knocking his way down the long wooden staircase to the kitchen.

  Cat shakes his head. “Unbelievable,” he says. “He’ll have the entire mansion burned to the ground one day . . . with us in it, if we’re not careful.” He wastes no more time in turning his attention back toward me. “Second, since it seems that these little episodes of yours aren’t whisking away any faster than Mr. Pyromania down there, back to my point—witches have visions. And visions are far more powerful than dreams. Visions are only of the past as fact or a possible future-to-be. Since you aren’t about to be dissuaded another day from pressing me on the matter. . .”

  I cross my arms. “No,” I say to him, “I am not to be ‘dissuaded.’ ”

  Cat’s going into his “lecture” mode now, probably not hearing a word I say. “Third, dreams are what humans have,” he says. “And just like humans, nothing good comes of them.”

  Cat’s a bit prejudiced against people. After what they did in the Purge, I can’t blame him. Once they found a few cats were actually witches in disguise, they nearly eradicated his entire species. And what they did to his—

  POP! Across the room, the fire crackles loudly and I jerk my head toward it. The sound sends a chill up the back of my neck.

  Cat stiffens at the sound. “Miss?”

  I stare into the fireplace. “It was . . . terrible. They burned her . . . alive. And no one tried—why wouldn’t they help her, Baxxster?”

  Cat stares at me for a moment before he speaks. “The most vexing thing about mobs, young miss, as I’ll assume that’s what you’re asking, is that until it’s your fur they’re burning, it’s difficult to conjure up the courage to resist them. And yet, when they finally get around to putting the fire to your own feet, most of us are surprised when even our closest friends won’t lift a claw to stop them.”

  “Baxxster,” I say it without thinking, because he is rarely that forthcoming, and I think I know what he’s talking about. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up. It’s. . . They’re just so real, and I want to help her, but there’s nothing I can do, and—”

  Cat hops down off my bed, walks to the fire, and then stops and stares into it. It’s as if he’s talking to someone else when he speaks, “Sometimes . . . one needs to learn the consequences of inaction, so that when given the opportunity to make a difference in the future, you’ll realize what doing nothing truly means.” And then he mutters something just loud enough that I can barely hear it. “By the next Blue Moon, my darling Dixxon, we’ll have to sort that lesson out.”

  And that scares me worse than my vision, because that’s only seven days away.

  Broom’s fresh back from the kitchen with tea and biscuits. And Cat and I have moved to my big green velvet chair next to the fireplace in my room. It really is the best place to take midnight tea. Something that the three of us have become quite accustomed to this past month.

  Cat jumps down off my lap. “Ah,” he says to Broom, “I was beginning to worry that you’d fallen into Dixxon’s ‘double bubble boil and trouble’ she’s brewing up down there. What took you so long?”

  Broom stops with the tray. It’s easier if he doesn’t try to serve tea and talk at the same time. “I was—”

  Cat rolls his eyes. “It was rhetorical,” he says. “Let’s see what you’ve conjured
for us this evening. No eye of newt or claw of crocdog, I trust?”

  As rough and tumble as Cat is with his feelings, Broom’s a sweet sweeper when it comes to conjuring up excellent midnight snacks. And my Mangy Mansion would be one sarcastic cat too many without him. Not to mention a downright dusty mess—dark and shadowy as it is, Broom keeps the place well-swept. The fact is, I can’t imagine what it would be like without either of them.

  They, and the rest of the mansion’s minions, are the only family I’ve ever known, not to mention my best friends. Outside of Magnolia, that is. Try as I might, I can’t remember anything about my mother or father, but Cat says that I don’t have any—

  “Dixxon,” he says, “it’s tea time, not witch history. Regardless, we’ve had that discussion, and I informed you that—”

  I frown at Cat then smile over at Broom. “I know,” I say, “it’s just that I don’t understand it, is all. Everyone else has. . .” Broom puts a bowl down next to my chair. The fireplace will keep it warm there. I guess I’ll just leave it alone for now. . .

  Cat gets edgy when I ask about my past and the subject of parents is particularly annoying to him for some reason. He pounces over and sits beside his bowl.

  Broom hands me my Saucer and Smug—my favorites—and takes his normal place across from us both.

  Cat leans down toward his bowl. “Well,” he says, “now that that’s settled, here’s to the bloody Blue Moon.”

  I raise my cup toward him and then at Broom. And as long as he’s sticking with tradition, so am I. “Thank you, Broom, for this lovely treat. And here’s to the bloody end of these bloody visions,” I say. “I’ve had enough of them to last a lifetime.”

  There are few times Cat’s civil to my poor whisk, but tea time’s one of them. “Broom?” he says. “What say you, sir?”

  “Bloody hell,” says Broom. And he tips up his tea with no more than that.

  “I’ll certainly drink to that,” says Cat. And then he laps up his bowl with barely a sound, save the purring at his obvious delight over its contents.

  One sip of mine. . . “Delicious, Broom. You’ve outdone yourself again.” I grab a biscuit and munch a bit of it then wash it down with another sip of tea. “What’s in it?” I know the answer, but I love to hear him say it anyway.

  Broom smiles. “Oh, a little a dis and a little a dat, and a little of the other ting. So have a sip and a drip and a nip, because who knows what tomorrow bring. Enjoy the spice, because it could be mice—”

  “Here-here,” says Cat.

  “—or some other favorite vice,” says Broom. “And listen well for the tea-time bell, because Broom’s treats are—”

  “Bloody hell.” I can’t resist the ending. I giggle and they both laugh with me. I’m sure I’m getting away with the vulgarity because Cat’s worried about my visions. And that tells me there’s more to them than he’s willing to share.

  Regardless, I’m sure he won’t like what I say and do next.

  Cat’s trotting down the long wooden staircase after me and Broom’s clopping along right behind him. And Mangy is busy flicking on wall candles in the mansion, lighting our way as we go. Mangy is accommodating that way. He—I always assumed my mansion’s a he—is good that way.

  “Out of the question,” says Cat. He pushes and shoves his side against my ankles, but I ignore him. “You . . . you can’t be serious? I won’t allow it!”

  But I am serious. I’ve never missed a night and I don’t plan to start now. I certainly won’t be missing one over “visions.” I wave my hand at the big iron coat rack by the front doors and my long hooded cloak lifts and flies over to me. I hold out my arms and the velvety dark green robe is down over my arms and buttoned in an instant. “Every night,” I remind Cat. “And anyway, I thought you said they were nothing to fret over. If that’s so, then why wouldn’t I go out for my walk? You think I’m afraid of the dark?”

  None of us believes that. Witches can see in the dark like a human can see on a cloudy day. Besides, there’s nothing in the dark that’s not there in the day. It’s just that in the daylight, magic’s harder to see.

  “Don’t baby her, sir,” says Broom. “She’s never had a problem bef—”

  “Don’t you ‘sir’ me, you wet willow!” says Cat. “The Blue Moon’s coming and . . . and. . .”

  Broom’s silent, but he obviously knows what Cat’s talking about.

  “Yes,” I say to Cat, “and my birthday along with it. Now, unless you’re going to stop pretending you don’t have something special planned for my sixteenth birthday”—I glance at Broom and his big eyes are about bugging out of his handle like the undead—“then I suggest that we all keep acting like it’s magic as usual around here, and I go for my walk.”

  “But the crocdogs,” Cat says. Now he’s just grasping, trying to get me to stay. “They—”

  “They don’t ever bother with me,” I remind him of what he already knows, “even on a full moon. They’re so busy hiding from the townies, they hardly have time to hunt horses.” Another wave from me and Mangy slowly creaks open the big wooden double doors to the front of the mansion. And I’m out into the damp night air.

  From the outside, the mansion is cloaked with a protection spell to make it look like a tiny rundown old shack with a crooked roof, a broken porch, and a foul smell coming from under the steps. The sight of the shack and the odor from the skunks keeps most people away. Those whom it doesn’t get a little squirt of stench from the sentry skunks.

  Naturally, Cat hates the front of the mansion because of them. He stops short of the open front door, turns up his nose, closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Disgusting. . .”

  I cross through his protection spell to the outside world—the place where he can’t protect me.

  Cat raises his voice at the skunks, lurking somewhere under the steps, “Nice to smell that you continue to attend to your duties.” Then he succumbs to the inevitable. “Keep a sharp eye on her, mind you,” he says to them. “I’ll have your bloody heads for dinner if anything should happen to her.” He turns, and as the mansion door shuts behind him, I hear his last protest, “I couldn’t stomach the rest of you.”

  The shores of Prien Lake teem with gigantic brown frogs, left over from the Purge. They’re bigger than a serving tray, and when the humans can catch one, their legs alone will fill a dinner plate. Baxxster calls them “croakers” because of the sound they make when one gets caught. As one of the few magical creatures left, that’s what will happen to them if they do. But despite that and being considered a delicacy by the entire imp culture, somehow they’ve managed to not only survive the Purge but thrive in spite of it.

  On my walks, I sing little rhymes to them. Just whatever pops into my head. Sometimes they ribbit back. I can understand most of what they say, though sometimes it sounds like pure pixie gibberish.

  “The deep dark night is black and bright. . .” I hum. Then I wait for the croakers.

  A hundred or so of them ribbit out a reply, “Your eyes see light while the crocdogs fight. . .”

  I don’t miss a beat, “Deep in the Fraschy Forest.”

  “Owooooooo!” The night air echoes with the sound of a howling crocdog. But this one sounds different.

  Most nights a lonesome crocdog, calling to his pack, would be just another part of my walk—music to my ears—but this howl sounds different. The Frasch Forest crocdogs are. . . They’re fighting with something. Another howl and I jog and then run toward the sounds. I think I know where they’re coming from.

  Baxxster would die if he knew, but I’ve been into the Frasch Forest more times than I can count. The cypress trees creak and groan, and the swampy floor buzzes and chirps with all kinds of animals—magic and mystical. But for some reason, I like the sounds of the crocdogs howling the most. It feels like lost songs to me—lonesome, lovely . . . longing for something. They sound like I’ve been feeling lately. Maybe that’s why I’m not afraid of them.

  Whatever it is,
the howls are definitely more urgent tonight. And as I slip under the canopy of cypress trees, squishing my way along the damp trail to my clearing, I’m pulled forward by more than my curiosity.

  I look up through the moss-covered overhang of branches. The moon’s about three quarters full now and in a couple of—

  CRACK!

  The sound wave knocks me off my feet. I fall backward and I can feel the cold dampness of the forest floor seep through my skirt and onto my backside. And Cat won’t be pleased about—

  Crack-crack-crack!

  “Owooooooo! Ow-ow-owoooo!”

  “Wup-wup-wup!”

  I don’t know why, but I’m up and running toward the sounds of crocdogs and. . . I have no idea what that was. There’s a miserable screeching sound and one of the crocdog voices is gone.

  When I get to my clearing, it’s crazy. There are two cloaked figures in the center of the clearing, waving their hands and shooting bursts of—it looks and feels like lightning and it’s so loud that I can barely stay standing each time. “Witch fight,” I mumble to myself.

  Magnolia, my best friend at school, told me about the old days, when black and white witches would fight each other. Before they united against humanity to save our entire race. She described it “like a lightning fight in the night.”

  There are crocdogs all around the edges of the clearing, howling and yelping, glowing red eyes flitting and dashing back and forth in the darkness. And every few seconds one rushes in and leaps at one of the witches.

  CRACK! Another one gets blasted with light and falls to the forest floor, morphed back to its human form. I can see several bodies in the clearing already.

  This has to stop!

  I don’t know where the thought comes from or what I can even do about it. But before I know what I’m doing, I raise my hand and I’m running at them. “In the name of the light,” and those are my words, but I have no idea where they’re coming from, because I. . . And I’m focused on the witch who seems to be winning and—a woman! The thought barely enters my mind when the figure spins at me like she heard me say it out loud. Her left hand moves like the lightning she’s shooting. She’s waving some kind of stick with a—my entire world goes bright white for a split second and then everything’s black.