Vengeful Vampire at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 8 Page 2

  Mademoiselle Daemonne

  I have been trying to reach out to you but so far to no avail.

  I have received word that you and your inn are in grave danger.

  I would urge you and your guests to remove yourselves from Whittlecombe forthwith. Seek safe harbour with Wizard Shadowmender. Lie low.

  Je vous prie d'agréer, l'expression demes respectueux hommages.

  Sabien Laurent

  “Ha. Ha. Ha.” I sounded out each syllable separately, but I wasn’t even remotely amused. The nerve of the man.

  I read and re-read the message, frowning over the implied meaning behind the words. Was this a threat from a deranged vampire? Or could it be a genuine warning? I had no idea.

  I noticed the quiet around me and looked up. Mr Hoo regarded me with a slightly wary, almost scared expression.

  Gwyn, her back to the window so that I could see the faint outline of the trees beyond through her transparent form, stared at me with pursed lips.

  What did they know? Why had Mr Hoo insisted I read the contents of the letter? Why was Gwyn fixing me with such a troubled look?

  I opened my mouth and closed it again. I had no intention of paying lip service to the pointy-toothed miscreant from Paris.

  Gwyn turned about to gaze out of the window again. She tilted her head slightly as though watching something. From where I sat, whatever it was remained out of my sight. A flitter of anxiety beat against the walls of my stomach and I couldn’t resist it. I stood and made my way over to her. The sun would set soon, the sky hung overcast. We might finally have some rain.

  I studied my great-grandmother’s face in profile. Her expression seemed heavier than normal. Something weighty had settled upon her.

  “Bats,” she said.

  “Bats?” I repeated.

  “The past few evenings, I’ve seen them circling the inn.”

  I rubbed my temples. Coincidence. That’s all it was.

  “It’s an old building,” I said. “They tend to enjoy the rafters and the thatched roof, the turrets and the old wattle and daub…” I trailed off as Gwyn nodded. I could tell she wasn’t convinced.

  “The letter was from Sabien?” she asked.

  I could hardly deny it. “Yes. But nothing to worry about.”

  Gwyn smirked. “Good try, Alfhild. I know when you’re lying.”

  “Well, you can see for yourself.” I gestured towards the desk where the letter lay. “He thinks there’s some danger here.”

  “And you think not?”

  I forced a laugh, hating how it sounded. “No, of course not. I admit I’m a little unnerved, but we’ve dealt with worse than a few crazy vampires in the past. I won’t let them get to me.”

  “But it’s not just about you, is it my dear?” Gwyn reminded me. “You have responsibilities.”

  “And I take them very seriously,” I reminded her. “I do. I may not have in the past, but I do now.”

  Gwyn nodded. “I know you do.”

  We regarded each other in silence for a moment. If Gwyn was this unnerved then I owed it to her to listen to her misgivings. She’d been a mighty fine witch in her lifetime. In fact, she was a mighty fine witch after it.

  I backed down. “I’ll speak to Wizard Shadowmender. But honestly, I think this is all hot air and dandruff. Sabien is trying to intimidate me. He wants to know where Marc and Kat are.”

  “You don’t know where they are,” Gwyn replied, arching her eyebrows.

  “Exactly. So it’s a secret I can’t help him with. When he understands that he’ll back off.”

  “But you’ll speak to Wizard Shadowmender anyway?”

  “I’ll do it now,” I promised.

  “I’d hate for us to be taken unawares.” Gwyn glanced back out at the sky, evidently bat-spotting again.

  “Let’s not be overly concerned. We have an inn full of witches,” I said, sounding more confident than I felt. “Think of the knowledge we have between us. And the spells! I’m sure we can cope with a few stray vampires.”

  Gwyn refused to be reassured that easily. “On the contrary. We shouldn’t be complacent. What we have is an inn full of intrinsically good witches. I’m not sure how useful they would be under battle conditions.”

  She had a point.

  “But we have Silvan,” I countered. “He’s worth a dozen vampires. And there’s not much that’s good about him either!”

  I hadn’t had to use the orb for a while. Guiltily, I pulled it from its box in my wardrobe and dusted it off before carrying it over to the window seat. I lifted it to catch the last rays of the sun and it sparkled with an almost effervescent energy before clouding over.

  Holding it at chest height I stared into the glass, watching as the clouds dissipated, until they finally revealed Wizard Shadowmender’s cheerful face with his ruddy cheeks, white hair and beard. “Greetings, Alf,” he beamed. “Long time, no see!”

  I smiled back at him. His cheerfulness and unrelenting positivity was infectious. “Greetings, Wizard Shadowmender. I apologise for not being in touch.”

  “Oh that’s no problem. I know you’ve been very busy with the telly people. I hope that apart from the unfortunate murder of the producer, it was a success?”

  “I think it was.” I nodded. “Florence tells me the ratings are very good. She’s obviously made up about how it’s all turned out. She was the runner-up, you know?”

  “So I heard. Such a clever young woman and a wonderful baker. I shall have to visit again soon and remind myself of just how talented she is.”

  “She will be thrilled to hear you say so. You’re always welcome here, you know that.”

  I hesitated, needing to get to the crux of our conversation but unsure what to say. “There’s something I need to share with you.”

  The elderly wizard nodded and settled back in his chair. I could see from the bookshelves behind him, and the various odd instruments on display, that he was at home in his little house in Surbiton. From the outside it looked like any ordinary and rather dull semi-detached, but once you entered, the place seemed to open out to the proportions of a small castle.

  “Share away, share away,” he instructed me.

  I held up Sabien’s letter. “I had this in the post today. It’s from Sabien Laurent. You remember him?”

  Wizard Shadowmender’s eyes shone. He loved a little challenge. “I do.” He cocked his head. “I take it he’s not planning on booking a holiday with you?”

  “I’d give him short shrift if he did,” I said. “No. This is a warning. He says that both me and my inn are in danger.”

  “Hmm.” Wizard Shadowmender frowned. “Does he give a reason?”

  “No. Just tells me to empty the inn of guests and get to safety.”

  Wizard Shadowmender chuckled. “I’m guessing that’s not on the cards, Alf?”

  I wavered. “Well it wouldn’t generally be something I would consider—”

  “But?”

  “But both my great-grandmother and Mr Hoo are uneasy.” Putting this into words underlined how unusual I found this. “I trust them. Mr Hoo stays out of the way of vampires, and Grandmama, well… you know what a formidable force she is.”

  “Indeed.” Wizard Shadowmender considered what I’d said. “This is most odd. I’ve had no intelligence about anything afoot, so I’m not sure what to suggest.”

  That wasn’t particularly helpful.

  “However… I think in light of your great-grandmother’s misgivings, perhaps we should take the threat seriously.”

  “I’m not leaving Whittle Inn—”

  Wizard Shadowmender held up one hand. “Peace, Alf. I’m not suggesting you do. But perhaps you should close to guests for a few days until we’ve had a chance to put some feelers out. I can pass on what you’ve told me to Penelope and her team of wizards and see what they discover.”

  Reluctantly I nodded. I could see the logic of this approach.

  “I wouldn’t normally pander to someone like Sabien,
I must admit,” Wizard Shadowmender continued, “but a threat to your guests? That I think we must take seriously.”

  I had to agree.

  “You haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary of late?” Wizard Shadowmender asked and I shook my head. I’d been too busy eating cake and conjuring djinns to pay attention to the real world.

  “No.” I could have kicked myself for becoming so complacent. “Nothing at all. But to be honest, this isn’t the first letter Sabien has sent me over the past few months. I haven’t opened any of the others.”

  “Sometimes danger comes from unexpected sources,” Wizard Shadowmender said. “We don’t always see it coming.” He clapped his hands to dispel my misgivings. “Not to worry, Alf. We’ll get to the bottom of it. Send me a copy of that letter. CC it into Penelope too if you don’t mind.”

  “I will do. I’ll close the inn and cancel any bookings for the next week or so as well.”

  “An excellent idea. Keep in touch.” Wizard Shadowmender clicked his fingers and flicked a spark at his own orb. The spark grew in size and obliterated his face, and then the glass was clear once more leaving me staring at the ghost of my own reflection.

  I became aware of voices on the lawn outside. Frau Krauss, a frequent visitor to the inn was returning from a walk in Speckled Wood. Finbarr, my young Irish witch friend, scampered along beside her. Frau Krauss was tall, and he was short, and the pair looked comical together. Of his annoying pixies there was no sign.

  She was one of many guests who loved to stay here at Whittle Inn.

  I sighed. I hated to close the inn when we were full of visitors. I’d have to elicit Charity’s help. She would manage the situation much better than I. Maybe we could arrange a free return visit or negotiate discounts for future bookings. In the meantime, I needed to make a few dozen phone calls and postpone any reservations we’d taken for the next few weeks leading up to Halloween.

  A thought occurred to me as I returned the orb to its box and stowed it safely away in the wardrobe. What if this was all an elaborate hoax and all Sabien wanted to do was damage my reputation?

  I sniffed. Well if that was the case, I’d create a hex that would be so powerful, he’d rue the day he messed with me and threatened my wonky inn.

  In the meantime, it was evidently better to be safe than sorry.

  I closed the wardrobe and made my way purposefully to my office.

  Time to let folks down gently.

  “How did your high tea go yesterday?” Florence and I were making up packed-lunch boxes for all our guests. Many of them had long journeys to take in order to get home. In addition to some homegrown witchy guests from all corners of the British Isles, we had a few Salem witches visiting, along with two from Florida, one from Chile, one from Russia, and Frau Krause of course. A most international contingent of magickal folk.

  “Very well, thank you, Miss Alf.” Florence piped a layer of buttercream onto some cupcakes with studied concentration. I didn’t really see the point myself. No cupcake ever managed to get out of a lunch box without taking some damage. It didn’t matter how pretty the piping was right now, a mile down the road and it would look like it had been chucked at a wall.

  “That’s good news.” I tried to sound bouncy, but I have to admit I was feeling a little low. I pulled a tin from the cupboard near me. It contained two-day old brownies and blondies. “Maybe we should give them these rather than cupcakes? What do you think, Florence?”

  Florence blinked at me pointedly, her cheeks covered as they always were in soot, while smoke floated above her head from her singed clothing. “I’ve made cupcakes now, Miss Alf.”

  “I’d just hate for them to get squashed after all your work.”

  “They’ll still be edible.” Florence smiled at me; the smile a parent gives a child when they know better.

  “Alright.”

  “We can give them a brownie as well if you like, Miss Alf. There’s plenty to go around.” Florence was humouring me, but it did make me a feel a little more useful as I carefully wrapped brownies in wax paper and slipped them inside the cardboard boxes lined up on the table.

  Monsieur Emietter was busy buttering bread and layering sandwiches. Somewhere, probably in the bar, Charity was organising Zephaniah and Ned who were acting as bell boys and rounding up bags, cases, broomsticks, hat boxes, potion cases, knitting baskets, as well as cages and carrycases containing familiars. Everything needed to be loaded onto the small coach we’d hired to take everyone into Exeter. The idea was that one vehicle would save on taxis and ease the transfer to other onward transport services.

  “Miss Alf, how long do you intend to close the inn for exactly?” Florence asked as she carefully pimped the last cupcake.

  “Hopefully just a few days,” I said. I had yet to hear back from Wizard Shadowmender. I could imagine Ross Baines and his technical wizard colleagues holed up in a dark basement somewhere—at the behest of Penelope Quigwell—searching for clues as to what the vampires were up to.

  “Well the timing is very good…” Florence avoided my curious gaze.

  “Is it? Good for what?” I flipped down a couple of lids on the boxes and began labelling them ‘vege’, ‘vegan’ and ‘meat’.

  “One of the women who came to my high tea yesterday was from a publishing company. They want me to write a book for them.”

  Argh! I knew it! I was going to lose Florence to the celebrity circuit. She’d have her own TV show on Witchflix and maybe even the Beeb, and before I knew it she’d be in a jungle eating witchity-grubs or rocking a bikini on an island somewhere looking for faux love. Then Whittle Inn would be a housekeeper down and who would make all my cakes? And…

  I reined in my panic.

  “Gosh. That’s a big step.”

  “Do you think it’s a step too far, Miss Alf?” The note of worry in her tone had me regretting my selfish response. I stopped what I was doing so I could look at her properly.

  “No of course not. You have the most amazing and creative ideas. You’ll produce a wonderful book. Everybody will want a copy.”

  Florence dipped her head in embarrassment. “Oh that’s kind of you, Miss.”

  “Is this a reputable publisher?” I asked. “You need to be careful about how much they offer and how much they take in royalties and stuff. I’ve heard that many of the big publishers take a huge cut and it doesn’t leave much for the person that did all the work.”

  “Quite a big publisher. Fatto and Windup. They publish both Faery Kerry and Raoul Scurrysnood’s books. It was Raoul who recommended me apparently.”

  She dropped the names into the conversation like confetti. Such celebrated circles my housekeeper had started to move in. It wasn’t that long ago I’d taken her up to London for the first time, now here she was courting the big publishing houses.

  “They recommended I find myself an agent who’ll hammer out a deal on my behalf.” The way she was speaking, like she knew what she was doing, quite took my breath away. “They gave me a list of names to try but that means accessing the internet or using the phone.”

  That kind of summed up Florence in a nutshell. She was a wonderful baker, superlative in fact, and here she was being headhunted by a publisher, and yet she didn’t know how to work a telephone or a computer.

  But then why should she? Neither of those had been invented while she was alive.

  In fact the inn hadn’t even had electricity back then.

  “I’ll help you,” I promised. “I’m not going to have much to do over the next few days.”

  “What? You’re not staying here, are you?” Charity had overheard the tail end of the conversation. She had brought down a load of used towels from the bedrooms upstairs. “I thought you said everybody had to leave.”

  “I’m not everybody though, am I?” I shrugged. “I’m the owner. I have to stay. The Captain of the ship doesn’t desert her bridge.”

  “Well I want to stay with you,” Charity insisted. “You can’t be here b
y yourself. What if someone does come looking for you?”

  “I won’t be here by myself.” I indicated Florence. “All of the ghosts will be here.”

  “But what sort of protection are they?” Charity complained and I suppose to a certain extent she had a point.

  “I have Gwyn,” I reminded her.

  Charity shook her head. “If I recall correctly, the last time the vampires came anywhere near here, Gwyn disappeared.”

  I pouted. That was true. “Where does she go?” I asked, more to myself than to anyone else, but both Charity and Florence shrugged in unison.

  “Have you tried asking her?” Charity tightened her grip on her towels as one or two of them tried to escape the bundle.

  “Of course. She won’t tell me though.” I chewed the inside of my lip. Would Gwyn stick around until Wizard Shadowmender gave us the all clear or not? “It doesn’t matter anyway,” I asserted as I turned my attention to labelling the boxes once more. “I’ll be fine. Silvan isn’t going anywhere.”

  “What do you mean you’re going back to London?”

  Silvan and I walked out into the drive. Gwyn, Florence, Charity, Zephaniah and Ned were already waving off our guests. We’d piled the old Devon General coach high with miscellaneous belongings and familiars, and presented each with a packed lunch box, then hugged and commiserated, consoled, laughed and high-fived depending on each individual guest’s specific penchant or needs. Now we stood outside the inn like some kind of modern-day Adams Family and waved them away. The old green coach, a relic from the 1950s and now on hire from a local transport company, lumbered slowly and noisily down the drive that led to Whittle Lane and Whittlecombe, disappearing from view between the oak trees, leaving a trail of stinky black smoke in its wake.

  My colleagues made themselves scarce as I confronted Silvan, although I noticed Charity grimacing when she noticed us bickering, as she walked backwards away from us.

  “You can’t go now!” I cried and Silvan held his hands up in mock surrender.

  “Alf, it’s not my first choice, believe me. But you know I have to make a living and I’ve been hired to do a job.”