Page 112 of Prince of Masks
I stare back at it, wide-eyed, and wonder if I am dreaming, or this ugly creature really is straddling me in my bed.
Then, speaking our human language as best as it can, which is better than most other imps ever manage, it parrots, “Witchdoctor. Here. You.”
It shakes me by the shoulders again.
A groan tugs through me.
I flap an arm to hit it off of me.
It goes tumbling to the floor. But those things always land on their feet, so I doubt it’s hurt.
I roll onto my side. “Coming. Minute.” Now I’m the one to speak as eloquently as an imp.
But the creature doesn’t let up.
It reaches over me to the blanket tugged up to my chin. The pinch of its grip is a mere breath of disturbed air tickling near my mouth before all the warmth is ripped off of me.
I curl up.
My teeth grit against the chill. “Light the fire.”
The imp snarls. “Not job.”
That’s true. Not exactly the imp’s job. Not one of its duties.
Imps are strict about that sort of thing, these unkindly creatures. Even if it was its duty to collect the firewood, stack the logs just right in the hearth, and strike a match—the imp wouldn’t toss the match, wouldn’t light the fire, because it isn’t paid to.
That’s where the tips come in.
My groan is ragged as, sluggish, I roll off the bed.
The hardwood floors are cool against the soles of my feet. But I don’t bother with socks or shoes, just a woollen jumper that I snatch off a chair on my way out, and the shorts and t-shirt I’m already wearing.
I tug on the sweater and make my way to Father’s office. The imp didn’t specify where to go, but it’s not hard to figure out, even while teetering on the edge of sleep.
Fatigue clings to me. It’s in the weighted drag of my feet as I push through the heavy door.
Father must have been in his office for a while this morning, some hours at least, because the fireplace is only simmering, but the heat swells in the room.
It’s an instant relief to the chill of my bones.
One thing about country houses in England is how fucking cold they get in winter. All the double glazing in the world doesn’t stop the draughts from creeping in somehow.
Behind me, the door shuts with a loud click.
Father looks up from his desk.
Slouched in his leather chair, the button tufted spine arches above his head as he turns his cheek to me.
I trace his gaze to the witchdoctor at the edge of the grand desk, hunched over an open metal case.
Even from this distance, the winks and glints of phials dance under the dim light, tucked into the foam of the case.
I rub at my eyes with the back of my hands.
Through a stifled yawn, I manage, “What?”
Just that.What?
