The Devil's Paintbox. Robin Jarvis
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mind – someone from whom it will be a smooth delight to sip, someone with enough full-bodied vintage in them to form the bridge from one plane of existence to another. Someone who will make my new flesh strong.’
‘You seeing someone else?’ Tracy cried and her fear flashed to anger. ‘You . . . you dumping me?’
Spinning around, she glared at the writhing clot of shadow and let out a scream. The churning black cloud revealed a spectral figure, tall and lit with a ghastly radiance. His hair was lank and his head was held at a strange angle on his twisted, kinked neck. A horrific scar ran down his right cheek and through his lips, but it was the pitiless hate that shone in those foul, dead eyes that really terrified her.
‘Who are you?’ she protested. You’re not my lovely Dark!’
Cruel laughter banished the last fragments of his hold over her and Tracy staggered as though she’d been physically kicked. Panicking, she blundered back towards the door.
But the two Rottweilers were waiting by the Portakabin steps, and they snarled threateningly at her.
‘I shouldn’t try to get past them if I were you,’ Mister Dark warned.
‘Let me go!’ Tracy begged. ‘Let me go! Please!’
‘That would be . . . untidy of me. The meticulous arrangements must not be spoiled in any way.’
‘I won’t tell anyone. Just let me get away.’
‘I believe you. Then let us part on a sweeter note. One final kiss?’
Tracy shuddered. Stepping up to the hideous apparition, she swallowed her disgust and held her breath.
Mister Dark’s ghostly face bent down and the scarred lips lifted in a repugnant grin as he gave a signal to Jack Potts behind her back.
The reels in the robot’s chest ceased spinning and three skulls stopped on the winning line. Metal hands were around Tracy’s throat before she knew what was happening.
‘Gullible to the very end,’ Mister Dark said. ‘Such a pity you’ll miss the entertainment. The final humiliation of the Whitby witches will be spectacular. You’d have enjoyed that, you unpleasant, stupid girl.’
As Tracy slumped to the floor, he added, ‘You really did have a very pretty neck.’
Jack Pott’s left eye was flickering erratically.
‘What more would you like me to do, Master Dark?’ he enquired.
‘Firstly, find a shovel. And then – oh . . . so many things.’
Verne Thistlewood lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He’d jammed pillows against his ears, but could still hear his parents rowing.
That’s all they did nowadays: argue and stress about their finances. The Thistlewoods owned an amusement arcade, but back in the spring most of the machines had been dismantled to make ludicrous gadgets and weapons when an ancient feud had magically possessed the entire town. The people of Whitby had come perilously close to destroying one another in a bloody battle.
The arcade never recovered after that. The insurance company wouldn’t pay out to replace the damaged amusements and Verne’s parents had sunk into debt. The summer season was already here and the town was thronged with tourists, but with only a dozen machines still working the arcade simply wasn’t earning enough. It was desperate.
The front door slammed and the vibration travelled through the apartment. One of his parents, probably his mother, had stormed out. Always practical, she had taken a job as a cleaner in the very gym she could no longer afford to be a member of and that morning was her first shift. Verne let out a long and dismal breath. He imagined that, unless some miracle occurred, they were going to have to sell up and probably live in a tent – if they could find a cheap, second-hand one.
The boy glanced at the chest of drawers across from his bed. Miracles were possible, he knew that better than anyone. He had his very own mini miracle-maker hidden away among his socks.
Getting to his feet he opened the top drawer, reached into a corner and pulled out a bundled-up T-shirt. Pausing a moment while he listened to make sure his father was still downstairs, he carefully unwrapped the precious object within. The morning sun blazed over the richly engraved golden surface. It hurt his eyes to look at it. This was the Nimius, the most incredible magical device ever created. Verne placed it gently on his pillow and sat back on the bed. He never tired of looking at this amazing treasure. It was breathtakingly beautiful and there always seemed to be some new detail to see.
The Nimius had lain dormant since that crazy week in the spring. Verne didn’t know how to wind the secret mechanisms, and none of the levers or symbols would push or slide. He and Lil had spent many patient hours examining and testing it, without success. Verne suspected it was broken.
The Nimius was his great secret. Only two people knew that he still had it: one was his best friend, Lil Wilson; the other was the town’s resident witch, Cherry Cerise.
‘What’s driving me round the bend,’ he muttered, ‘is that you’re probably the most valuable thing in the world and here we are, barely scraping by.’
Taking it up once more, he let out a squeak of surprise as he felt an internal movement and a series of delicate clicks. Then, to his delight, some of the many symbols began to rise.
He and Lil had made a pact that if and when the Nimius became active again, he would let her know straightaway. His first thought was to call her, but then he stopped himself. Placing the Nimius back on the pillow, even more gently than before so as not to accidentally press anything, he opened another drawer and took out a notepad.
Turning the pages, he consulted the secret list he and Lil had made. They had studied the magical device very carefully, researching every one of its symbols and trying to figure out what they signified. The Wilsons owned a witchcraft-themed shop called Whitby Gothic over on the East Cliff and the reference books in there had proved very helpful. They had identified several astrological and alchemical signs, including the one for ‘air’, which had once enabled Verne to fly. Some others were easy, like the little hand inscribed with the lines important in palmistry – that was obviously something to do with fortune telling. Then there was a circle engraved with a strange compass-like pattern that Lil recognised as ‘the Wyrding Way’, which was supposed to keep the bearer from getting lost. There was the Eye of Horus, which was protection against evil, a scarab that represented rebirth, an owl that might be to do with wisdom, and some Viking runes.
Other symbols were more ambiguous and had question marks next to the drawings Lil had made of them. Lil and Verne had spent a long time discussing the ones with less obvious meanings. There was an oak leaf, which had remained a puzzle, although they knew that oak trees were important in Celtic mythology. (Verne had wondered if it might grant enormous strength and he had posed like the Incredible Hulk to demonstrate, which had sent Lil into hysterics because he was the absolute opposite.)
Verne scanned the list and turned to the Nimius to see if any of the newly risen symbols were of the obvious variety.
There was a rune inscribed on to an oval button: a vertical stick with two branches to one side. He found the corresponding entry in the notes, then grinned and punched the air.
It was the rune for wealth.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he pressed it. There was a click and the Nimius trembled. The other levers and switches sank slowly into the golden casing once more.
Verne waited eagerly, hardly believing how lucky it was that the very miracle he needed had been supplied so readily. But as the minutes ticked by his