The Red Winter Read online

  Turning, the hag smiled and offered a curtsy. “Bea Shrope, love.”

  “May I call you Mum?” asked Scathach.

  “Do, girl, do!” urged the hag, gliding closer. “Pity such an angel should carry such a sharp spear.”

  “Mum,” said Max. “Please sniff her.”

  The hag’s smile curdled. “This ain’t Rowan.”

  “I know,” said Max. “But I’d consider it a personal favor. And, as you’ve noticed, Scathach carries a very sharp spear.…” With shrewish indignation, the hag plucked up Scathach’s arm. She sniffed once, blinked rapidly, and sniffed again. “There’s good stuff here,” she muttered, pinching and kneading the flesh. “Rich flavors, smooth textures. A terrine, maybe … yes, a delicious, delectable terrine.”

  Scathach remained stoic. “Thank you.”

  “Done!” shrieked the hag, flinging the arm aside and wheeling on the watchful workers. “I’d get busy with those decorations,” she said pointedly. “If Bellagrog returns to find things all ahoo …”

  “But the storm,” protested the foreman. “These winds!”

  Mum shrugged even as a gale made the rafters moan. “My sis don’t care ’bout no storm. She’ll want everything perfect for the Naming. Lots of folk to impress.”

  Leaving the workers to their unenviable task, Mum led Max and the others on a soggy scamper to Shrope Hovel. Surveying it, Max could not decide what it reminded him of until he recalled the rhyme of the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe. Indeed the Hovel looked like a shoe, or rather a battered, leaning boot cobbled together of various materials and styles. There was Georgian brick, Tudor beams, medieval thatch, an unfinished Gothic spire, and a broken Baroque column lying near the front door that served no apparent purpose other than to look fancy. Max guessed it was stolen.

  Despite its peculiarities, the Hovel looked warm and inviting. This impression of eccentric coziness was confirmed when Mum led them through a slanted door into a parlor with comfy chairs, an aged hearth, and bric-a-brac scattered about the many shelves and cabinets. Many portraits of hags lined the walls: hags in white wimples, hags in Flemish hoods, and a mottled, glaring enormity that could only be the infamous Nan.

  The Hovel’s ceilings were lower than most human dwellings. Max and Cooper had to duck knotted beams while poor Bob had to crouch as best he could and shuffle behind as Mum led them on a tour through various rooms. She chattered all the while, sharing tidbits like an enthusiastic docent.

  “That’s where Bellagrog pulled my pants down in front of a faun I liked.”

  “I used to hide in this sideboard when Nan was hungry. It locks from inside.”

  “See that dent in the wall? Bellagrog used me like a battering ram.”

  “But why would she do that?” inquired Scathach, looking perturbed.

  The hag tittered. “I called her ‘grotesque.’ ”

  “And why did you do that?” sighed Hazel.

  Mum merely shrugged. “It was the biggest word I knew. I called everything ‘grotesque’ when I was a hagling. Used to make Nan laugh.”

  “Speaking of haglings,” said Max. “Where are they?”

  “Oh, they’re off in some secret location,” answered Mum. “Sea-kwest-erred, as Bel says. Haglings is always sea-kwest-erred before a Naming. I don’t know where they are. More importantly, neither does Bel.”

  Ignoring their stares, the hag continued down a twisting corridor that finally opened upon the grand and spacious kitchen. Even Bob could rise to his full height, creaking up to survey its redbrick walls; wormwood cabinets; and array of stoves, cauldrons, and ice chests. Mum scurried about, lighting lamps, shutting windows, and heaving wood into the nearest stove. Smacking soot from her hands, she looked anxiously at Bob.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Very much,” said the ogre, taking an apron from his pack. “Let’s cook.”

  While the others relaxed around a table, Rowan’s former chefs boiled water, laid out ingredients, heated skillets, and began to bicker in their old familiar way. Soon there were onions sizzling, biscuits rising, and other delicacies that brought the smee to a swoon. Relieved of his packs, Toby had shifted into a black bear whose keen nostrils quivered as he padded about, drooling over various dishes until Bob shooed him away.

  Outside, it grew so dark it looked like night was settling. Heavy rain lashed the windows, but the kitchen was snug and its table laden with steaming crocks and simmering dishes. Mum was humming, her topknot bouncing as she scurried here and there for napkins and silverware. Max was feeding Nox a piece of bacon when the bear wedged himself in at the table.

  “I called first,” said Toby. “You were all witnesses.”

  “There’s plenty,” said Hazel. “Even you aren’t that greedy.”

  “Don’t underestimate me.”

  “Well, I’m so hungry I could eat a house,” said Max, elbowing Toby over.

  “And Nox could eat a mouse,” added Scathach.

  “And I could eat me an OGRE!”

  This last pronouncement did not come from the table. It issued from the hallway and was delivered with a throaty chuckle that made Mum shriek and drop a serving dish. The bowl shattered on the tiles, scattering buttered peas. Every head turned to stare at the mountain now filling the doorway.

  Bellagrog Shrope was home.

  Mum’s sister had grown since leaving Rowan. She had always been a sizable hag, but now she was positively titanic—over five feet and three hundred matriarchal pounds simmering in a rain-soaked bustle. Suspicious eyes skipped from face to face as the hag chewed the butt of a cigar. Removing a bergère hat, she tossed it deftly onto a little stand where it proceeded to drip on the tiles.

  “Well,” she growled. “Ain’t this a surprise? Ol’ Bob, Boon, Cooper, and Handsome Max sitting ’round my table comfy as slippers. A fair maiden and a black bear, too. I done stumbled into a nursery rhyme. Come on in, gals, and have a look.”

  Bellagrog made way for a trio of hags to push in from behind her. The shortest was the shape and color of a blueberry, the next was bony and wore thick glasses, while the third’s heavy makeup was so smeared from the rain that her features remained a gluey mystery. Inhaling deeply, she tittered as Bellagrog introduced them.

  “This bonny blue girl’s Smidge, the skinny-mini’s Specs, and the gigglin’ hulk’s Gurgle.”

  “Ooh, they smells delicious!” squealed Gurgle, revealing a row of brown jagged teeth. “Just the thing after a soaking. If ya doesn’t mind, I’ll have the lad.…”

  “Oi!” bellowed Bellagrog, snatching the hag before she could lay a hand on Max. “They is guests. Unexpected guests, true, but guests all the same. Hag Law!”

  “Hag Law,” repeated the others sulkily.

  “And anyway,” continued Bellagrog, “have a look at his wrist, Gurgle. No, the other one, you twit. That mark there.”

  Clutching her shawl, Gurgle blinked uncomprehendingly at Max’s tattoo.

  “Red Branch,” explained Bellagrog. “Take a bite and it’s curtains for poor, dumb Gurgle. And there ain’t just one at this table, but three,” she added, pointing at Cooper and Scathach’s tattoos. “Now fancy that. War in the kingdoms, winter winds in June, and three Red Branchies in me kitchen. Something wicked’s afoot!” She whirled on her sister. “Why they here, Bea?”

  “Th-they were in the neighborhood,” stammered Mum, sweeping up the broken dish. “They just p-popped by.”

  “Bwahahahaha!” cackled Bellagrog. “If you buy that, you’re thicker ’n Gurgle. You expect me to believe this lot just happened by on Naming Day? Leave that mess and roll some kegs to the inn. Pre-party’s in full swing. I’ll be wantin’ a word with this crew, so don’t hurry back. In fact, it’s best you stay away.”

  At this Mum exploded in teary hysteria.

  “They’re my guests and this is my Hovel, too, and they came to see me!”

  Bellagrog turned upon her sister like a planet rotating toward its moon. “And I’m Bellagrog Shrope,” sh
e growled. “First-spawned, grandest-named, and carver of the Yuletide goose. Do as you’re told, Bea, or it’s eyeballs for earrings. Hag Law!”

  “Hag Law!” cried the others.

  Mum wilted in her sister’s shadow. “B-but I’ve waited so long to see my Bob!”

  “Almost three years now,” jeered Bellagrog. “ ‘S-someday my Bob will come. S-someday m-my Bob will rescue me!’ ” The other hags cackled at the impression, but Bellagrog merely shook her head. “Get going, Bea, and let a gal think.”

  As Mum bolted out, Bellagrog shuffled over to the head chair occupied by Scathach. The hag jerked a thumb.

  “Move it,” she ordered. “And fetch some more chairs from the dining room while you’re up. Everyone works at Shrope Hovel—Dang it, she don’t need yer help!”

  This last outburst was directed at Gurgle, who was quietly slipping out after Scathach. Bellagrog rubbed her temples wearily. “If you’re gonna cook up my food, you might as well eat it. Dig in, already. Cold bacon’s a sin.”

  “I couldn’t agree more!” declared the black bear.

  “And what the heck is you?” asked Bellagrog, scooting over so the hags and Scathach could squeeze around the table. It was too many people for Nox, who jumped off Max’s lap and stalked out of the room.

  “I’m a smee, madam,” replied Toby, wisely bypassing his usual litany. “Toby the Smee.”

  “A smee!” exclaimed Specs, peering at him down her long nose.

  “Why you giddy ’bout a smee?” asked Bellagrog, sliding some ham onto her plate. “Never heard of no such thing.”

  “Oh yes, we have, Bel!” crowed Specs. “We learned about ’em in the old rhymes.” She tapped the measure with a spoon.

  It ain’t a yam

  It ain’t a grub

  You ain’t gonna find ’em in a shrub

  A better bet’s to look in your tub

  For the smee he likes his leisure.

  He can change his shape—quick as a blink!

  He can change his voice—and even his stink!

  But the tasty smee can’t handle his drink

  And that’s the way to catch ’im.

  As she completed the rhyme, the other hags turned toward Toby.

  “Wine?” pressed Smidge.

  “Ale?” offered Gurgle, brandishing a mug.

  “Twaddle!” scoffed Bellagrog, pushing back from the table. “This big ol’ bear wants a double whiskey from me private cupboard. Just the stuff on a nippy day.”

  “Hear hear!” cried the smee, his mouth full of bacon. “Ouch! Who kicked me?”

  “Toby will have water,” said Hazel pointedly. “Water that I will taste.”

  Bellagrog sat glowering while others filled Toby’s glass. With a sigh she passed the fried potatoes and set about the ham. “Heard about your father,” she said, glancing at Max. “Condolences, love. Scott McDaniels was good company and I didn’t mind him sharing me kitchen. Humans ain’t always my thing, but he was okay.”

  “Thank you,” said Max, oddly moved by her gruff sincerity. “He liked you, too.”

  She shrugged off the compliment. “You get satisfaction? You get the one that murdered him?”

  Max nodded. He had slain the demon Vyndra on Walpurgisnacht, but revenge brought little comfort—the man who had raised him was still dead and buried. Apparently Bellagrog saw it differently, for she smacked the table and jabbed a meaty finger at Gurgle.

  “Hear that, girlie? He hunted down his daddy’s killer and got his vengeance right and proper. Take one of his and he takes ten of yours. He’s more hag than you!”

  “It wasn’t quite like that,” said Max, but neither hag was listening.

  “Don’t talks to me about what makes a hag,” Gurgle huffed at her hostess. “You gots humans by the score round here and you don’t take a nibble. Some say you gone soft since you lived at Rowan.”

  “Who says?” roared Bellagrog. “Gimme names and they’ll be fattening me sows.”

  Gurgle folded her arms. “Never mind who. Just answer one thing.”

  “Let’s have it!”

  “When’s the last time you supped on man?”

  A vein throbbed at Bellagrog’s temple. “I got businesses to run,” she growled. “Fields to sow, crops to reap, soaps to sell, an inn to manage. Heck, I’m the biggest, richest hag in the land and you got the brass to question me at table?”

  “You still ain’t answered the question,” pointed out Smidge, waving a sausage.

  Bellagrog glared at her. “Couldn’t say when I last supped on man,” she muttered. “But I know when I’ll be having soused hag’s face.”

  “But we’re your guests!” squeaked Specs. “Hag Law!”

  “Hag Law,” chimed her mates.

  Easing back, a simmering Bellagrog surveyed them. “Aye,” she conceded. “Hag Law it is. But I’ll say this, Gurgle. Your sister’s been gathering Workshop dust for years while you putter about. So don’t go lecturin’ me on what makes a hag a hag. If Gertie was my wombmate, I’d have brought her home.”

  “Is Cousin Gertie your sister?” asked Max, turning to Gurgle. With a blushing nod, the hag inhaled an ear of corn.

  “We came across Gertie in the Workshop museum,” said Hazel to Scathach. “The engineers display different species. Apparently, Gertie had the misfortune of falling into their possession. I’m very sorry, Gurgle.”

  Cooing appreciatively, the hag patted Hazel’s hand and tried to heave her across the table. Cooper promptly stabbed her knuckles with a fork, which caused the hag to shriek and release her prey.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I never sat down with humans before. Did you know you go with peas and gravy, love?”

  “I’ve been told,” said Hazel, massaging her wrist.

  “Don’t you worry ’bout Gertie,” said Bellagrog. “Leave it to the Shropes to take care of what shoulda been done by her own. No Named hag shall go unrescued or unavenged. Hag Law!”

  “Hag Law!” cried the others in a clash of tankards.

  “And just how you gonna see to Gertie?” pressed Gurgle skeptically.

  “You’ll find out tonight,” said Bellagrog. “Now I wants to know why we got so much company—and dangerous company, too.”

  “What’s so dangerous about us?” asked Toby, licking his paws. “We come in peace.”

  The hag fixed him with a crocodile eye. “You know the price on Max’s head? For word of him, Prusias would fill my pots with gold. Every assassin in Blys has it out for Max McDaniels. There’s probably a bounty on your sorry rump.”

  “Me?” said Toby, taken aback. “Why should anyone have it out for me?”

  “You’re from Rowan!” hissed the hag. “Ain’t no itty-bitty school of magic no more. When mean old Prusias came to gobble Rowan, he got more than he bargained for, didn’t he? Bwahahaha! Can’t say I didn’t raise a mug when I heard the news, but that game ain’t over. Blood money for Rowan folk’s mighty high—more if they got lots of trinkets.”

  She pointed at Hazel’s magechain, a necklace whose many glittering ornaments were a testament to her accomplishments in Mystics. Smidge could be heard quietly calculating the teacher’s worth.

  “So you’d sell us to your brayma,” said Hazel coldly.

  Bellagrog chuckled. “Don’t know that there is a proper brayma round here. Some nosy bugger tried to tax our goods, but we learned him, didn’t we?” The hags giggled. “Nah, you’d have to walk far and wide to find a true demon in these parts. The bigger ones—the important ones—want lands closer to Prusias. Us Shropes are in the boonies and that’s the way we like it. Unless we got something they want, the demons will leave us alone. We don’t signify.”

  Cooper tapped the table. “If you’re in the boonies, where do you get your information?”

  Bellagrog shrugged. “Here and there. Goblins are blabbermouths if you toss ’em some coppers. Heck, I could tell you how many ships Rowan’s got heading for Blys.”

  Cooper’s voice was dangerously quiet.
“And how would you know that?”

  Bellagrog abruptly scooted her chair away. “Careful round this one,” she muttered to the hags. “Don’t you be looking at me like that, William Cooper. It ain’t my fault that Rowan don’t know nothing about dryads.”

  “Of course we know about dryads,” said Hazel. “Sylvan spirits that protect sacred groves. They take the form of beautiful maidens, inhabit the trees under their care, and were valued as ladies-in-waiting by mystic noblewomen. Dangerous if provoked, but fond of poetry, especially haikus and sonnets. Incidentally, they also make lovely scents. I got William a bottle for a wedding gift.”

  The hags roared with laughter.

  “I’ll bet you read all that in a book,” chortled Bellagrog, dabbing her eyes. “True enough, I guess, but you’re missing the point o’ dryads. They’re the great gossips of the world! Every hagling knows they can’t keep secrets and that they whisper ’em on the breeze until another dryad takes it up. You think all that sighing in the trees is just the wind? Ever wonder why you never seen a hag tinkle by an oak?”

  “I can’t say that I have,” said Hazel, unconcerned.

  “Well, if you did, you might put a thing or two together,” said Bellagrog. “We stay on the right side of dryads. It’s Hag Law.”

  “Hag Law!”

  When Max realized he’d unintentionally joined the chorus, he coughed and hastily wiped his mouth. “So what else have you heard about the war?”

  Bellagrog spread her hands. “Not much else. Just Prusias’s Workshop thingees went mad and that he fled when the Faeregine appeared and cracked his crowns. That’s got everyone talking.”

  “What’s the Faeregine?” asked Max. “It was Mina who drove Prusias away. She’s just a little girl.”

  “Just a little girl,” chortled Bellagrog, shaking her head. “You think some ‘little girl’ scared off a great brute like Prusias? Bunk! The Faeregine’s come again.”

  Max glanced inquiringly at Scathach, whose time in the Sidh made her an expert on many strange topics. But she merely frowned and shook her head as though the term puzzled her, too. Hazel sat up even straighter. Old Magic was one of her primary areas of study.