Chapter Four

 

The ghost child might not have known what I was but I knew I was hungry, tired and growing more irritable by the second. I hadn’t fully appreciated quite how far away Dartmoor was – or how desolate and bleak it could be at this time of year.

‘This is a mistake,’ Winter said, as we pulled into the car park of a sprawling pub.

‘Maybe. But it’s taken hours to get here. We can’t just turn around and leave.’

‘It’s probably a trap.’

I shrugged. ‘Set by Ipsissimus Grenville? A guy who’s been dead for two hundred years? Why would he bother?’

‘We don’t know anything about him or his agenda.’

‘You said he’s credited with making the Order a decent organisation.’

Winter snorted. ‘Is the Order decent?’

I rolled my eyes. This role reversal, where Winter denigrated them and I was the voice of reason, felt remarkably uncomfortable. ‘Rafe,’ I chided gently.

His mouth tightened. ‘Regardless of what the Order is or isn’t, we have no precedent for this situation. Ipsissimus Grenville might have been corrupted by death. Maybe he once was a good guy, but two hundred years of being a ghost could have turned him into something else. We can’t trust him.’

‘I can’t just pretend this isn’t happening. Let’s see whether Ghost Child and Grenny are right about these dead witches and take things from there. One thing at a time.’

‘You’re still not entirely yourself, Ivy.’

‘I’m okay.’ I glanced round. ‘Look. There’s a sign over there with a map on it. With any luck, it’ll include Wistman’s Wood. It can’t be far.’

Winter strode over towards it while I ambled behind. He pursed his lips and scanned the map. ‘It’s about three miles from here but the ground will be boggy and steep in places.’ He threw me a sidelong glance. ‘And there may be some sheep.’

‘Three miles?’

He nodded. ‘So it’s a six-mile round trip.’

‘Can’t we drive?’

‘Even a Sherman tank would struggle across this terrain. We can walk it. There’s a path.’

‘But there are hills. And – bogs.’

‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘Can you make it?’

I pressed my hand to my forehead. ‘Actually, I’m starting to feel a bit weak again. My legs are rubbery. Maybe you should go and check it out and I’ll go into the pub and see what the locals know.’

The corners of Winter’s mouth twitched. He tried to suppress the broad grin that was slowly spreading across his face but it was clearly beyond him. ‘Thank goodness. It’s about time,’ he said. ‘Now I know you’re really feeling better.’ He sucked in a deep lungful air. ‘Perhaps being outdoors will do you good.’

Wait a second. If he could change his mind that quickly about this venture, then I could change mine. Especially when it involved six miles of trudging across moors. ‘But I’m still not entirely myself yet.’

‘Actually, I think you are.’

‘You were right the first time. Ipsissimus Grenville might have been corrupted by all those years as a dead guy. We might be walking into a trap.’ I shook my head. ‘This is a mistake.’

‘Too late, sweetheart.’ He put his arm round my shoulders. ‘I’m glad you’re back to being Ivy again. I’ve missed your complaining and your laziness.’

‘I don’t complain!’

Winter laughed. ‘Of course you don’t.’ He held me at arm’s length and looked me up and down. ‘The pain has gone. I can’t see any trace of it.’

Actually, it tended to reappear when I was least expecting it but I wasn’t going to tell Winter that. ‘Arse,’ I said. ‘I suppose three miles isn’t that far.’ I’d barely finished the sentence when the first fat droplet of rain splashed onto my nose. I shivered and turned hopeful eyes to Winter.

‘If we want to get there and back before it gets dark,’ he said, ‘we should go now.’

I grimaced. Another drop of rain fell, this time sliding down the back of my neck. Lovely. ‘Let’s get going.’

It wasn’t too bad to begin with. Despite the rain, which was increasing in ferocity by the second and decreasing the temperature, the path was firm underfoot and clearly marked. There were a couple of stiles to clamber over but I managed. Winter even held himself back from racing across the landscape like a mountain goat and kept pace with me. I tested him by slowing down almost to the point where I was just shuffling along.

He stopped and threw me a look. ‘Ivy…’

I smirked. ‘I wanted to see how far I could push you.’

He rolled his eyes although he was obviously more amused than annoyed. I had to milk this for all it was worth; Winter’s patience wouldn’t last forever. I pointed ahead at the next wooden stile.

‘That’s a kissing gate,’ I said, pasting on an innocent expression. ‘I wonder why it’s called that. Maybe we should…’ My voice faltered as a shadow crossed my path. I looked up to see a grizzled old man leaning on a walking stick and staring at me.

Winter stiffened. ‘There’s another one, isn’t there?’

I nodded, my mouth suddenly dry. ‘Wistman’s Wood?’ I asked. ‘It’s that way, right?’

The ghost took his time answering. Eventually, he rubbed his cheek and bobbed his head with slow, ponderous movements. ‘It is, aye. They’re waiting for you. They’ll be glad you came.’ He turned and trudged up the hill away from us. I watched him as he vanished into the rolling fog that seemed to have appeared from nowhere and was rapidly descending towards us.

‘He’s gone,’ I murmured to Winter, my sense of humour all but vanished along with the old man. ‘Let’s get a move on.’

‘What did he say?’

I pursed my lips. ‘That they’re waiting for us.’

‘Who?’

‘The dead witches, I imagine,’ I said quietly.

Winter and I exchanged looks. He opened his mouth to speak but I shook my head. I knew what he was going to say. ‘No. We should keep going and see what’s really going on.’

He didn’t argue but he reached across to take my hand and squeeze it. ‘Okay.’

As if our combined determination deserved immediate retribution by some vengeful god, the rain increased until it was pelting us. Nervous about what might happen if I attempted a spell, I quickly described a rune I’d developed years ago to Winter. He listened carefully then did as I suggested, using magic to form a shield over our heads. His rune was a bit shaky, which was to be expected for a first-timer, but the end result was enough to keep us dry.

‘That’s impressive.’

I grinned. ‘It’s a magical brolly.’

‘It’s also a clever spell.’

Buoyed up by his praise, I gave a little hop, skip and jump. That was clearly a mistake, as it made me slip on a muddy section of the path. I slid forward, arms flailing and legs out of control, only managing to stop when I reached what was less like a large puddle and more like a deep lake. I narrowly avoided landing face first – but that didn’t mean that I was home and dry.

‘Aaaaargh!’ Up to my thighs in freezing cold muddy water I turned, expecting to see Winter racing towards me to help me out. Instead he was trying very, very hard not to laugh. I folded my arms and glared at him. ‘Ha. Ha. Ha.’

He pressed his lips together tightly and walked over, extending a hand to help me out. I ignored it. He’d had his chance. Sniffing loudly, I tried to heave myself out of the gigantic puddle but the mud around the edges was too squelchy and there was nowhere to gain purchase. I scrabbled with my fingers, finding only brown sticky gloop that smelled more like dung than earth. Then I remember what Winter had said about the sheep. Bloody creatures. Since my so-called adventure up in Scotland, I hated those things.

I jumped up, attempting to use momentum to get out. That didn’t work either; when I crashed back down, there was a muddy tidal wave and I succeeded in drenching my top half as well.

Winter leaned forward. ‘Now would you like me to help you?’

I muttered something under my breath and, avoiding his eye, stuck my hand upwards and waved it around. He grinned and grabbed it, pulling me out. Unfortunately, not all of me wanted to come: my left shoe stayed behind. By the time I got out and faced Winter, I was covered from head to toe in wet mud, with one shoe and one very sodden sock.

Now that he was confident I was fully recovered from my woes and ills, Winter’s blue eyes crinkled with amusement. Hmm. I’d show him.

Blinking rapidly, I let my bottom lip jut out slightly and tremble. I couldn’t actually cry on demand but I could give it a good shot. I dropped my head and half turned away, as if embarrassed to be caught weeping. Winter immediately reacted, grabbing hold of me and drawing me into a tight hug. Not only was his dry body heat a bonus, so was the fact that he held me close. Only when I was sure that I’d pressed myself fully against his length did I move away. ‘Ha!’ I stuck out my tongue. ‘That will teach you to laugh at me, sirrah!’

Winter was perplexed – until I pointed out the muddy splodges on his body from where I’d touched him. If I was going to look like the creature from the black lagoon, so was he.

‘Why you little…’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘Little what?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s probably safer not to say.’

‘You betcha it probably is.’

Winter sighed, bending over as if to brush the worst of the mud off his clothes. A heartbeat later, there was a loud splat as he threw a handful of mud at me. The first one missed; the second landed smack bang on my cheek.

I gasped in mock horror. ‘You…’

‘You what?’

My jaw worked uselessly. I blew out air through my pursed lips and glared. ‘It’s probably safer not to say.’ I paused. ‘You black-hearted guttersnipe.’

Winter tilted his head to one side. ‘Guttersnipe? If I’m a guttersnipe, then surely you are a cabbage-headed fribble.’

‘I’ve never heard of a fribble before,’ I commented. ‘I’m going to assume it doesn’t mean supreme being of gorgeousness.’

‘That would be a correct assumption.’ He eyed me. ‘Not bad for a cow-handed gadabout.’

Darn it, he was much better at insults than I was. I was going to have to up my game. ‘Why you … you … blue-eyed…’ I threw up my hands. ‘You win.’

Winter smiled smugly. ‘I always win.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ His smile softened. ‘I got the girl, didn’t I?’

I was standing in the middle of nowhere, with civilisation miles away. I was cold. I was wet. I was pretty certain that the dribble running down my cheek was sheep dung. And I couldn’t have been happier. The men in white coats would be after me any second now. I actually looked around just in case they were already on their way.

The horizon might have been clear of people but it certainly wasn’t clear of rain, which took that moment to splatter down with greater intensity. Winter frowned and raised his hands to re-do the umbrella rune I’d taught him. I shook my head. ‘With any luck, it’ll wash off the worst of the mud.’ I sighed. ‘But if you could perhaps retrieve my shoe?’

Winter drew out a quick rune, his elegant fingers dancing through the air. A few seconds later, my poor trainer bobbed to the surface of the evil puddle-cum-sinkhole-cum-deathtrap. I grabbed it and squeezed it back onto my foot, grimacing at the squelch.

‘Thank you. Although this is why we need the Order’s help,’ I said. Winter stiffened. I bit my lip and looked at him. ‘I can’t rely on you alone to perform magic spells to keep us dry and conserve enough energy to deal whatever might be waiting up ahead. I can’t be afraid of using magic.’

‘For what it’s worth, I’m pretty certain you’re not about to go on a zombie-raising rampage. The spirits you’re seeing,’ he gestured, ‘they’re probably just a side-effect of the necromantic magic you absorbed. It’s not as if anyone else has ever done that before and survived. There’s no precedent here to work with.’

‘There might be more side-effects to come. We just don’t know.’ I reached up and brushed away a glop of mud from his cheek. ‘About the Order, Rafe. Maybe you should…’

‘No.’

I wanted to argue with him. I knew he desperately missed being part of the Order, even if he wouldn’t admit it to himself. But if Winter was going to accept all my faults and foibles and daft actions without question, he deserved the same respect from me. I pushed back my hair and nodded.

‘Okay.’ I wrinkled my nose. ‘I’ll tell you something for nothing,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘When we get back home, I am staying put for at least a week. On the sofa, with Brutus and you and absolutely nothing else. I don’t care what the ghosts say or do or want. Coming here is already above and beyond. This is probably the spirit equivalent of a daft prank. They’re probably watching us and pissing their transparent pants.’ I bloody hoped so. When Winter’s eyes met mine through the rain, I knew he was thinking the same.

Enough larking around. It was time to get serious.

***

We tramped on as the weather gradually grew worse. It wasn’t just the rain, which was mingling with the mud in my hair and on my face and making my eyes sting. The fog was becoming denser, shrouding everything in a thick veil. Having wet feet didn’t make me feel particularly cheery either. I honestly considered casting the spell I needed to dry off but I didn’t want to be rash.

Several more times Winter and I slipped, slid and narrowly avoided falling. Dartmoor was supposed to be an area of natural beauty; so far it seemed nothing more than natural disaster. It also seemed a long way to come to dump a body but maybe that was the point. Not that I was a corpse-dropping expert, of course.

I was on the verge of telling Winter that we should turn around and see if the pub had any rooms for the night when, out of nowhere, I spied a wood up ahead. At first I thought it was the heavy mist that made the place appear ethereal and otherworldly but the closer we got, the more I realised that the weather and the circumstances were nothing to do with the atmosphere – or the chilled thrill which was running through my veins. I’d never seen anywhere like Wistman’s Wood before.

The area was thick with trees. There were few leaves, which was hardly surprising at this time of year. What was astonishing was the twisty-turny nature of the branches and the heavily gnarled trunks. It was like coming across a wood of cultivated bonsai trees – except these versions were definitely not in miniature. Green moss clung to every surface. The ground wasn’t any less strange; heavy boulders and stones lay everywhere, covered in the same moss so that it was almost impossible to tell where the trees began. I gazed round, my mouth hanging open in wonder. Standing here was worth the long, soggy trek.

Winter gave a small shout. ‘Bilberry!’ he crowed. ‘Do you know how difficult it is to get hold of natural-growing bilberry?’ He darted over the rocks and wove in front of me.

I smiled. There was very little that could make a herblorist happier than coming across some clumps of fresh weeds. I left him to it and scanned round, searching through the twisted skeletons of the trees for any ghostly movement. There was nothing; the wood was as quiet and eerie as a graveyard. Funnily enough, that thought wasn’t the slightest bit comforting. I took a deep breath and tried to force the matter. ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’

The wind seemed to pick up in answer, whistling through the bare branches and rustling the loose sections of hanging moss. But no one spoke.

I shrugged. Either the ghosts were shy or they weren’t here. I couldn’t see any evidence to suggest a body had recently been dumped here, let alone several bodies. Besides, although this place was bleak and chilly it was unusual enough to attract ramblers. No one had noticed anything out of the ordinary. This was a wild-ghost chase.

I picked my way over the rocks to join Winter. He was emitting strange coos of delight and gathering up as much bilberry as he could. ‘Having fun?’ I enquired.

‘There’s so much of it! Honestly, Ivy, there are so many applications for this kind of plant. The possibilities are endless. In fact…’ he looked up at me, suddenly remembering why we were here. He stilled and searched my face. ‘Have you seen any spirits?’

‘Nope. It’s spooky but there’s nothing here that I can see.’ I glanced round. ‘And I can’t see where on earth you’d hide a dead body either. Can you imagine lugging one all the way out here without being noticed?’

‘It certainly wouldn’t be easy,’ Winter agreed. He swung his backpack off his shoulder and stuffed the bilberry inside it before reaching for my hand. ‘Come on. I’ve got something with me that’s going to make you squeal.’

I grinned. ‘Sounds kinky.’

‘Oh,’ Winter purred, ‘this is better than kinky.’ He delved inside the bag and withdrew a flask.

I gasped. ‘Is that…?’

He winked at me. ‘Hot chocolate.’

Winter was right; I did squeal. ‘That’s not all,’ he said. He reached into his bag of tricks again and pulled out a plastic box. With a flourish, he lifted the lid to reveal two sandwiches, clingfilm-wrapped to within an inch of their lives.

I wrapped my arms round his neck. ‘You’re brilliant.’ And he was. I’d stayed in bed an extra ten minutes and Winter had got up to make snacks.

‘Careful!’ he warned. ‘You’ll squash them.’

‘I’m sure they’ll taste just as good.’ All the same I pulled back. There was something suspicious about the sandwiches. I frowned and looked a little closer. ‘Winter,’ I said, slowly. ‘Did you, uh, use a ruler to cut the bread?’ It looked oddly perfect.

‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘It was a set square.’

His expression was so deadpan that I decided he was serious. Rather than look a gift horse in the mouth – my stomach was rumbling, after all – I gratefully took one of the sandwiches.

‘There’s a more sheltered spot over there,’ I suggested. It wasn’t exactly warm or dry, even in the shadow of the great gnarled oak, but there was less wind and the worst of the rain was shielded by the twisted branches overhead.

Winter nodded and we traipsed over. I plonked my bottom on some damp moss and wriggled around to get comfortable. Amused, Winter sat beside me and poured two small cups of steaming hot chocolate. I carefully laid my half-unwrapped sandwich to one side then took the cup from him, curling my fingers round it to get the full benefit of its heat. Then I dipped my head, took a sip and groaned.

‘Raphael Winter,’ I breathed. ‘You might be the best man in the entire world.’

He glanced at me, obviously pleased. ‘There’s no “might” about it, Ivy Wilde.’ He smiled. ‘Nice moustache, by the way.’

I ran my tongue round my lips before smacking them loudly. ‘Mmm.’ I reached for the sandwich again. ‘If I ever start taking you for granted, bring me back here and throw me in that puddle again.’ Then I took a bite and choked.

The surface of the bread was coated in something dry and dusty which tasted highly unpleasant. ‘What are you trying to do?’ I asked. ‘Poison me?’

He blinked. ‘Huh?’

There was a loud tut. I didn’t need to look up to know that one of Grenville’s ghostly buddies had finally decided to show. Where there was a tut, there was bound to be a spirit waiting to castigate me. It was about time.

‘It’s not his fault,’ a woman said. She was wearing a high-necked white robe with frills that seemed at odds with the barbed-wire tattoo snaking up her neck. ‘You’re the one who put your lunch in the middle of my remains.’

My mouth stopped working as I looked at where I’d laid the sandwich. There wasn’t a large pile of ash but there was enough. I sprang to my feet and spat out what was left. Dead people. I was eating dead people.