The Hawkweed Prophecy (15 page)

Charlock felt the heat of Sorrel's humiliation from all the way over in her caravan and guessed she must be facing Raven's wrath. She felt a pang of sympathy for her niece despite the distress she had caused her daughter. She understood what it meant to be related to Raven. How, if you let it, it could make you lose sight of yourself and act in ways you were not proud of.

Charlock was washing Ember's hair, combing the lice from her scalp. Their miniature black corpses lay bobbing in the water, like the charred remains of a shipwreck.

“There you are. All gone now,” Charlock said gently.

Ember looked up at her with grateful, reddened eyes. “Thank you, Mother. I love you so!”

Charlock wrapped the golden ponytail around her hand and squeezed the last of the water from it. Ember had a habit of wringing her heart this way. When Charlock thought she'd given as much as she was able, somehow Ember would squeeze a few more drops of feeling from her.

“Whatever you did to annoy her, stop it!” Charlock had a last pull on the ponytail before releasing it.

“I don't know what I did wrong, though!”

Ember's voice was high and plaintive, and it irked Charlock. “Think on it, then stop it. Or more mess will come your way, you hear.”

Charlock took the bowl of dirty water and threw it with a slosh onto the grass outside. For a moment she stood and watched the water seep into the ground, back from where it came, the nits sinking to their muddy graves. Then she turned back to her child.

“And I won't always be able to clean it up for you.”

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

M
inx screeched when she saw it, her cry so sharp with shock that it slashed the air. The ungodly creature had emerged through a cloud, as if born of the night, its bluish-black feathers and ebony eyes melding it with the dark sky. It flew past Minx and settled on the highest branch of the tree. Minx crept along the roof, padding closer for a better look. The bird was a huge, hideous brute, all out of proportion, with a beak too long for its head and oversized skeletal wings that hunched and hung at its sides, making it look much older than its years.

As Minx approached, the creature took off again. It flapped through the air, over the house and garden, back and forth, patrolling the area, its beady eyes surveying the surroundings. Minx watched it go and called to the others, alerting them to the danger. The other cats appeared, their eyes flashing in the darkness.

The bird landed on Poppy's window ledge. Minx screeched again, this time for Poppy, trying to tell her to wake up, to be careful, to know something evil was lurking. The winged monster peered inside the room, its hooked beak tapping on the glass. All the
cats started to meow now, their voices a warning siren. Minx leapt forward, landing on the gutter just above the window. She swiped a paw at the creature, who looked up at her and cawed an ugly, hellish sound. Minx hissed, baring her teeth, and the bird took flight again, soaring high. Minx trembled with relief. Poppy was safe.

Then suddenly, without warning, the bird plummeted. Talons outstretched, it plucked Minx from the roof as though she were a mere mouse and carried her squirming body off into the night.

Poppy sat up in her bed, her eyes snapping open. Her heart was beating fast, and her breath was coming quick and shallow. She looked around her room. All was silent and still. Swinging her legs out of bed, she went to the window, pushing her curtain aside. Outside she saw nothing unexpected. But something was wrong. She could feel it. She forced herself to get back under the covers and calm down. Shutting her eyes, she tried to fall back asleep, but rest would not come. She was on high alert, and no matter how much she told herself there was nothing to be scared of, she still felt fearful.

The next morning she was exhausted. The adrenalin had sapped away, leaving her feeling low and depleted. Her eyes were bleary, the skin beneath them tinged with shadow.

“Morning,” her father said, more chirpily than usual.

From her bedroom, in her sleepless state, Poppy had heard her father's radio alarm, his feet on the landing, the water from the
shower hitting his body, the whine of his electric toothbrush, and the sound of his spit in the sink. But now she was up, she was so tired she hadn't heard him enter the kitchen. She turned and murmured a good morning. He looked annoyed.

“For God's sake, Poppy. Miserable already?”

Poppy rolled her eyes and turned back to her toast.

“Eye rolling?” Her dad looked at his watch. “And not even eight o'clock.”

Poppy opened the fridge and searched for milk.

“If it's milk you're looking for, we've run out,” her dad advised. Then he laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “Pick some up after school, will you? And some bread too.”

“Why do I have to do it?” Poppy muttered.

“Because I'm working, Poppy. To pay for the milk and everything else in this house.”

Even though Poppy now remembered giving the last of the milk to the cats, she felt like taking the ten dollars and running away. Leo had done it. Leo. Why did she still think of him when he wasn't hers to think about? She took the ten and grabbed her coat and school bag.

“Good-bye, then!” her dad called after her in an exasperated voice.

“Bye,” she replied quickly as she opened the door.

Poppy's hand flew to her mouth to stifle her scream. Minx was on the step in front of her but she'd been ripped apart, her stomach and chest exposed so that Poppy could see right inside of her. The little cat's teeth were bared in a grimace.

Poppy dropped to her knees. “Minx . . . oh, Minx!” she gasped.

Minx's head twitched and her eyes turned to Poppy. She couldn't move her head but she was still alive. Poppy reached out a hand to touch her.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,” she whispered.

Poppy's heart was burning in her chest. The guilt and pain seared through her. Minx had waited all these hours for Poppy to come, lying there in agony while Poppy had sat in bed, wishing she could sleep.

Why hadn't she walked downstairs and looked outside? Why? She had known something was wrong. All those hours she had known and she had done nothing about it. She scooped Minx into her arms and opened the door.

“Dad! Dad!” she shouted.

His mouth dropped when he saw her. “Poppy. What on earth?!”

“You've got to take us to the vet. Please!” Poppy pleaded.

“Where did you find it? Put it down—it's bleeding everywhere.”

“We've got to go. Hurry!” Poppy was crying in earnest now.

“For God's sake, Poppy. Look at it—it's not going to make it.” Her dad came closer and stared at Minx with an expression of deep distaste. “It doesn't even have a collar. It's just a stray. Poppy, come on now!”

Poppy looked around her wildly. “Give me your keys? I'll drive her myself.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“What are you going to do? Have me locked up like Mom?” Her dad looked wounded. “I'm sorry. Please, Dad. I'm begging you.”

“It's dying, Poppy. It'll never make it. Let the thing die in peace.” Her dad walked back into the kitchen. Minx gave a whimper.

“I hate you!” Poppy yelled after her dad, the pain and fury of the words raking her throat. “I hate you!”

She stumbled down the road sobbing, her tears splashing onto Minx's fur. Every time Minx shut her eyes, Poppy would call her name and the cat would try so hard to open them until the effort proved too much and her lids sank back down. Her breathing was long and hoarse, rattling in her wounded chest.

“Don't die. Please don't die!” Poppy begged.

Minx looked into her eyes and Poppy stopped.

“I have to try to save you,” she insisted.

Minx stared back at her meaningfully, and Poppy shook her head as if in answer:
I can't lose you too.
But then she looked at her friend, savaged and bleeding, and she moved to the wall and sat down on the pavement. Cradling Minx in the crook of her arm, she stroked her head ever so lightly, not wanting to cause her more pain.

“I love you,” she whispered.

As soon as she said that, Minx's breathing slowed even further. Then her eyes shut for the last time and the expression on her small face turned from pain to calm serenity.

Poppy went weak, not just with heartache but something more. The spell she had cast for Leo and Ember stopped. Just like that. It was as though the power lines were down and she could no longer reach the witch part of herself. Not that she cared. She simply continued to stroke Minx, knowing her friend was gone but needing to pretend for just a little while longer.

“Who did this to you?” Poppy asked, and then she understood. It was because of her. Someone had killed Minx to hurt her. And
with that realization, Poppy's sorrow sharpened to a hard spike and formed a weapon.

To Leo's surprise, the clock broke again that morning. One second it was keeping perfect time, the next it stopped dead. As Leo examined the clock, his head felt clearer, his vision sharper than it had been since last night. He had slept heavily, despite the noise and the cold, and dreamt deeply, so deeply that when the sun rose, he found it hard to wake. He floated in and out of sleep for some time until a garbage truck stopped close by, and first the clatter and then the smell forced him to get to his feet and move on.

Still the dream lingered in his consciousness like a mist, and Leo was aware he was thinking and moving more slowly than usual. Try as he might to focus, his mind kept returning to Ember, the girl who had entered his dreams uninvited and unexpectedly. She was a hazy figure, the stuff of fantasy, not flesh and blood like Poppy. Leo tried to picture Poppy, her dark, boyish hair and girlish figure, her wild, clashing eyes. So often he had seen her in his mind's eye, but this time her features wouldn't stick. As soon as he captured them, they'd fade away and in her place Ember would appear, hair spun like gold, smiles and dimples and curves, inviting him closer and closer in. Then the clock stopped, and suddenly she was Poppy's friend again, pretty and sweet, but nothing more to him than that.

Relieved that he was now thinking straight, Leo put his mind to the clock. Its workings looked no different from before, and
Leo could see no reason for its hands to freeze like that. He hoped Mr. Bryce, the antiques guy, might be able to fix it, so he set off to see him, passing the church on his way. As Leo glanced over the graveyard toward the hidden garden, thoughts of Poppy came rushing back to him. He felt so relieved to have her back in the forefront of his mind that he decided to stop and visit there. The clock could wait a while.

For the first time Leo found the old, secret door in the wall hanging open. He hesitated but then stepped through, his eyes scouring the garden to find the person who trespassed there. He wasn't sure who it was at first. He couldn't make out the face, just a figure near the stream crouched on all fours, burrowing into the ground with their hands. Leo moved closer and then stopped when he realized it was Poppy. There was something so violent and desperate about the way she was attacking the ground that he wondered whether he should disturb her. Just as he decided to back away, Poppy turned and looked at him. Her eyes were wild through her matted hair. Tear tracks streaked her muddy face.

“Help me,” she said.

Leo moved to Poppy's side, and that's when he saw the cat's body. He had seen the corpses of animals before, mostly roadkill, but this was something different, something vicious. Leo's eyes went to the hole in the earth and immediately he understood what Poppy was digging.

“It'll need to be much deeper or the foxes will get to it,” he told her.

Poppy looked at her filthy hands and started to cry once more.

“Wait here. Don't move,” Leo instructed.

When he returned he brought with him an old spade. Poppy
shuffled out of the way and watched him dig. It was harder work than he expected. The ground was full of stones, and the metal blade of the shovel made painful sounds as it clashed and clanged upon them. Leo's back and arms started to ache, but he made himself dig further and further, just to be sure. When finally he was satisfied with his work, Poppy placed the cat into the hole.

“What about some flowers? Leaves, even?” he suggested.

Poppy shook her head. She knelt beside the grave and murmured words that Leo couldn't make out. It wasn't a prayer, but Poppy seemed in some kind of trance and the soft words took on a rhythm that felt somehow spiritual. Leo stepped away to give her some privacy. Then Poppy took the earth and started filling the grave. He bent down to help her but she shook her head.

“I have to do this.”

So Leo waited until all was complete and she was ready. Poppy stood and faced him.

“You don't mind, do you? That I brought her here?” she asked.

“It's where I'd want to be.”

“Me too.”

Leo took her home. They stopped on the way so he could put the spade back in the shed from where he'd taken it. He jumped back over the fence and landed softly next to her.

“Like a cat,” she said.

When they reached Poppy's house, there were bloodstains on the step and Leo asked if she wanted him to call her dad. She looked at him like he was crazy. Then he asked about school. She sighed and shook her head wearily. He knew what it was like to feel too tired and sad to speak. He ran her a bath and told her to get in it. Downstairs he looked through the kitchen cabinets,
his stomach rumbling at the sight of all the tins of food. Rifling through the bottles there, he picked one and poured a little in a mug for her. Then he called the school—the number was pinned to the board by the phone—and pretended to be her dad, informing them Poppy wasn't feeling well today.