The Magic Cottage

cry was only a whisper.

'Zap the fucker, Midge.'

Her teeth were gritted so tight that her face had become a grimacing mask, and her figure was taut, her body like a divining rod into which energy coursed.

'You can do it, Midge!' I called out, still in a strained whisper.

And I was certain she could. She was Flora Chaldean's successor, the natural heir to those weird powers whose source was Gramarye and the ground the cottage stood upon. Everything that had happened over these last few months had been directing her toward this critical point. Whatever governs these mystical laws of sorcery and all that entailed had decided she was the one to carry on old Flora's good work, she was the guardian, the keeper of the power, the one who would prevent it from being perverted. In a funny way, I felt proud (although I could have done without the trauma).

'Get the bastard, Midge!'

Her arms were fully extended, palms and fingers flat together. It was as if she were aiming an invisible gun at Mycroft's head and I reveled in his growing discomfort. The tension constricted my throat and I could cheer her on no more. Instead my fists trembled in the air before me. Now she had him, now she'd put an end to his lousy bloody tricks! Her arms were ramrod straight and I could almost see the energy pouring through.

Mycroft's eyes had widened so that the pupils were surrounded by white.

Kinsella was trying to move in and I got ready to tackle him. But he'd stopped dead, unable to move.

Mounting pressure was drumming in my ears.

Midge's fingers opened.

She exhaled squealing air.

And nothing happened.

'Shit!' I shouted, and stamped the floor.

Mycroft was perplexed. Then very happy. He raised his cane and suddenly Midge's feet left the carpet. She floated upward.

Her body tilted and she screamed my name. She rose, four feet, five feet, rigid as a board and becoming horizontal. She put her arms over her face as the ceiling came closer, and I could only look on in shock, unable to do a thing.

Her body was only inches from the ceiling when he laughed and let her go. She plummeted down and I moved fast to get underneath her, catching her in my arms, both of us crashing to the floor.

We lay there battered and gasping and all I could hear was Mycroft's laughter—his cackle. Kinsella and the others were also amused. Except for Gillie: she'd fainted.

We were finished. He'd kill us and probably make it look like a lover's tiff gone wrong. Or maybe the conclusion would be that someone had broken in, burglars on the make, and had launched a frenzied attack on us when they'd been discovered (just look at the state of the place). He'd find a reasonably rational way, of that I was sure, but why should I worry what that would be? That was his problem.

I raised myself on one elbow, ready for the worst, but determined to make a match of it.

When the doorbell downstairs clanged.

FLORA

IT WAS A ludicrous situation: Midge and me sprawled on the floor, the Synergists spread around the room, edging in for the kill—and now the Avon Lady was calling.

Only it wasn't someone selling perfume out there. And we hadn't heard door chimes: the 'bring out your dead' sound had come from the old bell hanging outside the kitchen door. The urgency in its tone told us the caller wasn't going to go away (and all the cars out front indicated that somebody had to be home).

Mycroft gave a barely perceptible nod of his head toward Kinsella, and before I could move the American had dashed forward to slip an arm beneath Midge's throat. Her feet kicked air as he lifted.

Mycroft came closer to me. 'You'll get rid of whoever's out there. I'm not concerned with how, but you'll do it. Your sweet little loved one will suffer if you fail. A sharp pull of his arm and her windpipe will be crushed instantly. He can do it, believe me he can easily do that . . .'

I looked up at Kinsella and didn't doubt for a moment that he could and would. Taking in that wide, handsome face I wondered whatever had happened to Mom's Apple Pie and the American Way.

I rose unsteadily and considered rushing him, grabbing his arm or knocking him flat before he could do any damage, but I soon dismissed the idea: the bastard was too strong and too quick and I'd be too slow and not strong enough.

'If you hurt her . . .' I said unconvincingly, and he loved the threat. He squeezed one of her breasts with his free hand just to show me how scared he was, and the craziness in his smile made me shudder.

Midge squirmed against him, unable to cry out because of the bar against her throat.

I took a step toward them and he increased the pressure on her neck so that Midge's eyes rolled upward with the pain.

'I'll finish her and then you'll be next,' he warned amiably.

I backed off, hands raised. There was nothing I could do. The bell downstairs rang more insistently.

'Don't be foolish in any way,' Mycroft advised.

I shrugged and brushed by him, going into the hallway. Madness, I kept telling myself as I stomped down the stairs. The whole bloody thing is total, unbelievable madness. And if these lunatics were going to get us anyway, why not make a break for it when I opened the door? At least I'd get to the police. But the car keys were still upstairs, dropped in the melee. The caller would have come by car, though. Grab whoever it was and run for it, drive into the village and bring back help; that was the thing to do. But leave Midge alone in the hands of these freaks? That question didn't even need a conscious answer.

A stairboard gave beneath me and I abruptly found myself sitting down, one foot sunk deep into the carpet. Movement from behind and I knew one, or maybe two, of the Synergists lurked at the bend of the stairs, waiting to pass the word back should I misbehave when I answered the door.

The bell stopped clanging.

I felt a terrible despair.

Then the door was being pounded.

I picked myself up and hurried down the last few steps, crossing the kitchen and reaching the door without further deliberation. The wood was straining against the frame as though the person outside was angry and impatient, and desperate to be let in. My fingers touched the top bolt and froze on the cold metal; I was suddenly aware of who it was out there. I don't know how I knew, I just knew. My arm slowly lowered as if of its own accord and I stared at the door.

She'd been trying to reach us for a long time now.

My fear had reached a new zenith, rising from the slushy morass of dread like a dripping creature from a swamp.

Did I really want to face that figure who'd watched us from a distance? Did I want to come face to face with that ravaged countenance, to stand within feet of her? Did I want to smell her putridness so close, the stink of corrupting death that had already fouled the air inside the cottage? Did I finally want to meet my own nightmare?

Did I have a choice?

The banging had stopped as if she knew I was on the other side and that it was only a matter of time before the door opened. I reached up for the bolt once more and slammed it back, compelled by a will other than my own.

My fingers slid down the painted wood, sinking to the metal bar at the foot of the door. I snapped the lever horizontal, then began to slide the bar open.

'No!'

Still crouched, I turned to find Mycroft at the bottom of the stairs; something had made him follow me down.