Blood, Glass and Sugar Page 2

  Evie saw jewellery boxes, Victorian lamps, pocket watches and necklaces spilling out of chipped watercolour vases and woven willow baskets. A coat stand in the corner sported sweeping velvet cloaks and an array of head wear, feather caps, scarves and top hats.

  Beside that there was an oval mirror. It was the only mirror in the shop. The frame was of dark wood, black as a raven’s wing. A pattern of leaves and triple spirals was carved deep into it, brought to life by jewels and gemstones fashioned into suns and moons and stars. It was mounted on the wall, and a cloak was draped over the top half of it, looking like a purpled eyelid drooping down over a bruised silver eye. Reflected in it, Evie could see the old woman watching her.

  “Oh, my dear,” she wheezed, taking Louise’s arm and dragging her to join Evie at the mirror. “You’ve found my prize piece, child. Ain’t it a beauty?”

  Evie nodded politely, but when the woman reached her wizened fingers out and whipped the cloak away, an involuntary gasp of horror leaped from her throat. Her heart beat rapidly, feeling like a water mill spinning acid in her chest.

  The room was small, too small. And the mirror so big that it would swallow them.

  Evie staggered, bumping into a stack of boxes that came up to her waist. The soft toys inside jostled and Evie didn’t know if the box was toppling over or if she was. The woman’s cool hands slid round her wrist like a bracelet of fine bones.

  The panic attack retreated just as suddenly as it had come on. The old woman let go and patted Evie’s shoulder.

  Louise hadn’t noticed anything. She was running her hand around the mirror’s black wood frame, examining the carving and tapping the many gems and jewels that were sunk into it, sparkling and glowing like cats’ eyes in the dark.

  Evie rubbed her face, and took several deliberate, calming breaths. Maybe coming shopping had been a bad idea after all. She was tired and drained, her eyes felt heavy, as though she had been crying for hours, and a pain in her head pounded rhythmically with her heart.

  “Are you okay, my sweeting?” the old woman asked.

  Evie shook her head. “I feel a bit light-headed.”

  The woman’s sunken mouth spread into a slow grin, her red lipstick cracking like a newly dried scab. “Maybe you should try some of my apple wine, eh?”

  Evie nodded. “I am quite thirsty actually.”

  She followed the woman to the front of the shop. The leaping dance of fire drew Evie’s eyes to the base of the cauldron. It was authentic, an iron pot with three legs. Its liquid simmered gently over a fire from a pile of sticks kept in a circle of stones beneath it. Goose pimples prickled Evie’s skin. With every moment the old woman was becoming creepier, like a wizened old witch that would not look out of place in a gingerbread house. She ladled some of her potion into a plastic cup.

  Evie took it, grateful for the heat that seeped into her with a thrill. She raised the glass and took a sip, it was sweet and spicy all at once, and made a gently burning path down into her stomach.

  “What’s this?” The old woman caught Evie off guard, grabbing her hand and pushing up her blazer sleeve. It took a moment to realise she was talking about the raven Evie had inked on her wrist. Seeing it again, Evie decided she was definitely proud of the feathers. As the old woman ran her finger over them it looked like the bird was writhing, trying to escape from her touch.

  “Wondrous!” the old woman croaked, looking straight into Evie’s eyes. “Such detail in such a tiny drawing…and such emotion.”

  Evie blushed, pulling her hand from the woman’s grasp and rolling her sleeve back down. “Thanks. It’s nothing really. I was bored.”

  “Fancy a tattoo, do you?” She pointed out the window towards another alleyway that led out of the cobbled street. Evie couldn’t remember ever noticing it before.

  “There’s a wonderful young artist lives down yonder. You know his name actually means raven! I’m sure he could work with you on a lovely piece of art.” She touched Evie’s cheek with cold fingers. “Though a pretty girl like you needs no decoration. White as snow, eh? Red as blood.” She prodded Evie’s lower lip, and then pulled one of her curls, letting it spring back up. “Black as ebony too,” she crooned. Her laughter crackled softly as the fire beneath the cauldron.

  Evie smiled nervously and stepped back in an attempt to regain some personal space. “I’d love a tattoo, but my dad would freak out.”

  The old woman shook her head. “You don’t agree now, do you?” She directed her words to Louise.

  Louise was still examining the mirror. “Hmm?”

  “This young lady ought to be able to express her creativity, shouldn’t she?”

  Louise finally broke contact with the mirror. “Yes, certainly.” Her eyes flickered towards the cauldron and she pulled her hood back and came to stand with them.

  “A red head!” The woman looked delighted. “I once had a mop of those curls on my own head. Marvellous.” She ladled another cup of the wine and gave it to Louise. “I was just pointing out a good tattooist, lives just across the road. It was me that got him settled here. Awful shy fellow, but talented. Makes jewellery too.”

  Louise took a tentative sip of the wine, and licked her lips after it. Then it was suddenly as if she was drunk on that one little mouthful. “You know Evie, that’s what I’m getting you for your seventeenth birthday. A tattoo.”

  Evie choked on her wine, almost snorting it down her nose.

  The old woman looked alarmed, taking the plastic cup off her and setting it on a nearby table. She thumped Evie’s back unnecessarily.

  Evie shook her head, stepping out of her reach. “I’m ok, really.” She blinked water out of her eyes, and wiped it away with her hand. “You serious, Lou?”

  Louise nodded solemnly. “Of course I am. Don’t worry about your dad. He’ll just have to face the consequences of having a hip young wife.”

  “You’re the young lady’s stepmother?” The old woman looked intrigued. “I thought you were both just friends.”

  Louise beamed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She glanced back at the mirror, tapping her fingers frantically against the plastic cup. “You know, I think I’m going to buy that mirror. I don’t think I’ve seen anything so unique and beautiful.”

  The old woman suddenly looked very serious. “My prize treasure.” She hobbled down the shop to stand beside the mirror again. “It came from far away, so very, very far away.”

  “Where?” Evie asked. She thought the woman was just putting on a show to get the best possible price, but the mirror did look like it had a story of its own.

  “From so far away that people have forgotten, my dear." Her catlike eyes glittered with a fey curiosity. The colour was a shadowy green-blue, like the distant sea, when the land disappears from beneath it and the water harbours unknown creatures in its depths.

  The woman let out a lunar laugh that broke Evie’s concentration. She was getting ridiculous. Who cared about the woman’s strange eyes, or the stupid mirror? She was getting a tattoo.

  “Listen to me talking nonsense, eh?” The lady walked to Louise’s side, and took her arm. “Why doesn’t the young girl go see my tattoo friend, and we can discuss the price.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Louise said. “You can ask him about the cost, discuss designs or something. I’ll call you on your mobile when I’ve taken the mirror back to the house.”

  “Sure you can carry it okay?” Evie asked, walking to the door. She was more eager to get out of the bizarre shop than she’d realised.

  “Oh she’ll be fine, dear,” the old lady answered. “My nephew’s out back, he can carry it for her.”

  “If you’re sure,” Evie said, pulling the door open and stepping out into the cold. The old woman said something else but the novelty doorbell laughing in her ear drowned it out. She looked back as the door swung shut again.

  A young man had appeared, the owner’s nephew no doubt. He was lifting the mirror down from the wall. Normal. Except that
his hand wasn’t a hand. It was the grey, three-pronged talon of a bird, skinny and crooked and awful. Evie tripped trying to get up the step and back into the shop, slamming up against the glass door.

  Louise and the woman stayed bent over some paper on a coffee table but the man froze for a second, throwing a black eyed glance over his shoulder. He set the mirror on the floor against the wall, and came toward Evie.

  She opened her mouth to scream for Lou, but when she forced herself to glance down again she saw that he had perfectly normal, human shaped hands.

  She scrambled back off the step, darting across the street and into the dark alleyway, her face on fire with embarrassment.

  Chapter Two

  She stopped running after a few meters, her embarrassment fading into curiosity. It was very dark, and when she looked up it seemed that the tall ramshackle houses leaned towards each other, whispering in creaks and groans. They blocked out what little light the miserly winter sky would have afforded her.

  Her footsteps clacked on the cobblestones, echoing around the empty alleyway. There was something medieval about the place. Wooden signs swung on chains above the doorways announcing the names of the shops. The doors were closed, and she didn’t see any light through the dusty glass windows.

  She glanced back over her shoulder, the opening of the alleyway seemed far away, but she could make out the warmly lit antique shop, and the three figures inside. She should have asked the lady what the tattoo parlour was called, and if she were sure the boy would even be there tonight.

  She walked further down, and stopped abruptly when she heard the distant beat of drums, and a quiet overlaying melody. Light shone in a rectangular patch on the stones from one of the houses a few doors down from her.

  She walked faster, glancing up at the sign swinging down from metal poles above the door. ‘Candle and Rose’. She read it out loud, feeling a little foolish, but hearing her own voice made her feel less alone. She slowed as she walked past the window so that she could look in as casually as possible.

  It was a normal run of the mill bar, except that it was filled entirely with young people. No old regulars were shacked up in the corners as far as she could see. Maybe it was a popular student hangout. Whatever the case, she was glad there was some life in the alley.

  She walked on past a dozen or more closed shops searching for anything that even remotely hinted at a tattoo studio. Then the alleyway came to a dead end. The house that stood above her was just as dilapidated as the rest, but the way it faced out of the lane made it look like it hadn’t given up all hope yet.

  It didn’t have a sign, but someone had painted on the window, in a curling gothic script, the word ‘Clandestine’. Then there was a profile of a woman with pointed ears and flowing red locks. She leaned down as though patronising a child and held a finger against her lips. But she gazed out of the painting from the corner of her long lashed eye.

  ‘Shush’ sat eagerly on the tip of Evie’s tongue, but she held it in, laughing at herself. She presumed this was the artist’s studio, and walked up to the door. A small plaque hung down proclaiming that the shop was open, so she pushed on the rusty steel handle and let herself in. The door creaked horribly, and she cringed, shutting it behind her as quickly as it would allow.

  The inside was grim and gothic. When her eyes adjusted to the light she froze in place and stood gaping at the magnificent counter. It was carved mahogany, presiding over the shop like the pulpit in a church, but infinitely more interesting. It looked like a mass of thorny vines climbing up a tower, ensnaring it. She half expected to see Rapunzel at the top, throwing down her hair to the customers, but there was nobody else in the shop.

  “Hello?” she called, climbing the steps so that she was standing at the counter. There were curtains behind it that must have led out into the main house, but no one came through them to answer her.

  She looked for a buzzer to press for attention but there was nothing there. A few half complete sketches lay scattered about, charcoal pencils in an open case beside them. She walked back down the steps to explore the rest of the shop.

  A glass cabinet stood hidden behind a bookcase, carved in the same style as the counter. The cabinet displayed an array of tattoo designs. They were beautiful, elaborate and unique. Wicked looking faeries crept in the background, behind grand and noble elfin aristocracy, drawn with thin and regal bodies and clad in gowns that made of fire or ice, or coloured air itself.

  She leaned closer, squinting to make out the minute detail, the shading in every strand of silky hair, the creases and folds in the clothes, the silver-metal glint in the jewellery. She could tell the artist favoured jewels and trinkets above everything else.

  She knelt down to examine the shelves below, the art wasn’t well lit, but she could see it was all as stunning as the first lot. There were also pieces of real jewellery, intricate rings in an array of sizes and colours. The lady had said he made jewellery. She pressed her hands against the glass, wishing she could touch it. It looked to be perfectly made, smooth metal wrought into twists and turns and spirals.

  At the very back, almost all in shadow, she could make out another art print. It was not in the same style as the others, the pen strokes were too harsh, the colours bold and much less subtle. It showed a glass coffin, in which lay a girl, Snow White presumably, but she wasn’t sleeping peacefully. Instead, she was in a panic, her eyes wide with fear, her hands pressing against the glass.

  She was surrounded by clutter, objects made from glass placed in the coffin with her. Evie could see a goblet lying at the hilt of an impressive sword, a glass chain wrapped around it, with the other end fastened to Snow White’s wrist. A glass rose lay on the pillow, slicing into her cheek. Blood ran down, pooling in the hollow of her neck, a clear glass ring floated in it.

  An explosion at the front of the shop threw Evie out of the picture. The windows caved in like an avalanche of water, and crashed on the floor with a mad cacophony of sound. The strange silence that followed was short before a collection of male voices tore it to shreds, laughing and yelling. She couldn’t understand them, though she made out every disconnected syllable. It was like she’d forgotten how to speak English.

  The shop floor was littered with broken glass, glowing and glittering in the dim light. She spied a patch of darkness, a space between the cabinet and the steps to the elevated counter. She crawled into it, feeling a sharp sting as glass sliced through her school tights and into her skin. She drew her legs up and hugged them to her body, squinting out into the shop.

  She could just make out the door as it swung back and slammed shut. The last man to enter the shop was still walking towards the steps. Evie could see his soft leather boots treading carelessly across the littered floor.

  The stairs creaked beside her as he ascended them. Evie heard the wood groan under him, felt the reverberations travel down her spine to mingle with her fear. She bit down hard on her lip until her teeth sunk into her skin. The sharp pain calmed her, brought her back into control. If this was some sort of gang fight she had to keep silent, she had to not exist.

  She kept her eyes closed, imagining she was part of the black nothing that she could see. She didn’t want a tattoo anymore; she wanted another gallon of the old hag’s fiery apple wine. She even wanted to shake hands with the boy’s imagined crow talons.

  A voice cut through her maniacal wishes. This time she understood the words as English, though it did little good.

  “Well, where is he then? More importantly, who is he?” The voice was lazy with arrogance. Evie knew it was the man who had sauntered casually across the glass, the gang leader. The sycophantic laughter that followed his words confirmed it.

  There was a commotion from above, the sound of a struggle, one that ceased abruptly after a sudden thump. “Seems we came on a bad night,” the voice continued. “Wrath, is it? And here without a weapon. Wise of you to hide it! I’d much prefer Greed. That would be somewhat more conductive to negotiat-”


  “What do you want?” another male voice cut in, dark and melodic. He had a very proper sort of accent, but Evie couldn’t place it exactly.

  “You know what I want. It’s taken long enough to find you all again, and this time I will wring the truth out of you like the Washer wrings the blood from the sheets.”

  “It’s not me you need then. It’s him. And sometimes he barely remembers. He’s losing his mind you see. It’s something about the girl.”

  Another thump resounded. The leader wasn’t getting any happier.

  “The girl’s dead again, and a mortal is hardly any threat to us,” he growled.

  The prisoner laughed coldly before he choked. Evie heard him spit before he managed to speak again. “No, she’s hardly any threat, your Highness. That’s what I like to hope myself. You say you’ll wring the truth from me, but I don’t know the truth. I wish I did though, I truly do but if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t tell you. The Washer never wrung blood from stones.” He gave a quiet laugh, a brave sound, laced with an undeniable darkness. “I enjoy life, as everyone knows. Somehow, I don’t think the fruition of your plans involves me holding on to it, does it? ”

  Evie’s ears were ringing, sending the words ‘mortal’ and ‘Highness’ swimming around in her brain, trying to find a logical place to rest. And then the last of his speech sank in dangerously, and she wondered if she was about to be a witness to murder.

  The other man whispered something under his breath, probably an obscenity. Then he spoke more clearly. “You don’t have a life, fool. You are an enchantment. Worse, you are a parasite.”

  A violent beating followed.

  Evie cringed at the sound of every strike, bile stinging the back of her throat when the blows began to sound slick and wet with blood. It seemed to last forever, and Evie remained curled up in the darkness, feeling like a coward. When it finally stopped she felt sore all over, as though she had been on the receiving end.