Jordon panted as the pain ceased, cautiously lowering her hands. Shuddering, she watched the griffin rip the corpse apart. Her hand felt through the grass, closed around the branch. Hoping the griffin would stay occupied, she began to back away, eyes lowered, as if she were backing away from a mad dog.
She had not gone three feet when she bumped into something.It moved.
With a war cry, Jordon whirled and swung her stick with all her might. She thought she had struck the head that belonged to the eyes that now hovered above her, but she didn’t linger longer than it took the beast to grunt in pain. She ran towards the house she could see at the end of the gravel path with a speed that would have surprised her old gym teacher, propelled by sheer terror.
The griffin leaped in front of her, landing in a flurry of wings. Jordon cried out, tried to brake, and skidded on the wet grass. She landed on her butt with a wet squish. Terrified, she waited for it to attack.
The griffin eyed her, then sat back on its haunches. It cocked its great head, and began to clean its talons calmly.
Jordon drew a deep breath. Slowly, she got to her feet. A furtive glance to the side showed more dark shapes in a loose circle around her. The night was black, but she could hear them breathing. It was hard to contain her fear, but she put forth a mighty effort. Panic didn’t seem like a good idea.
“It was brave of you to attack the banshee,” the griffin said, giving her a start.
“Foolish,” someone grumbled.
Jordon shifted. The heavy stick in her hand was hardly reassuring. “I wasn’t attacking her.” There was a short silence. “I didn’t realize what she was until I got closer.” She was babbling. To counter it, she bit down. It helped to still the chattering of her teeth, too. The rain may have abated, but the wind was frigid.
“You’re cold,” the griffin observed. “You should go in.”
“Great idea,” she said quickly. “If you’ll excuse me?” She waited for someone to move, but no one seemed in a hurry to do so.
Another flash of lightning lit the circle around her, giving a glimpse of big, winged bodies to her right and left. It was enough to see that there were gaps in the ring, easy enough for her to slip through. Shaking, she took a quick breath and darted between the bodies.
She couldn’t help a glance back, but none of them had moved. Eyes front, she speed-walked towards the house in the distance. She didn’t look again to see if anyone followed. She hoped not.
The driveway must have been a quarter-mile long. Though she could only snatch lightning-lit glimpses, the mansion at the end looked old, gothic. Were there people inside? Only the darkened windows kept her from breaking into a sprint to reach the place. If it was deserted, would she find a door or window unlocked? The griffin had said she should go in. Did he know the people inside?
The storm was fast becoming one of the worst she’d ever seen. Whips of lightning split the sky with almost supernatural frequency. Suddenly one speared an ancient oak tree not fifty yards from her, splitting it in two. The thunder came so quick it deafened her, drowning her shrieks.
Jordon decided she didn’t care if the mansion housed a battalion of zombies; she ran for it. Stumbling up the stone steps, she skidded to a halt at the door and pounded for all she was worth. “Hello?Help! Please let me in.” She looked quickly over her shoulder, expecting to be pounced on at any moment.
It took a determined round of banging on the old iron knocker but finally there came a deep echoing sound as the door grudgingly swung open. An old woman with black eyes, and the biggest nose in Christendom, scowled down at her. “We’re not open to travellers.”
Jordon stood up straight, her composure somewhat restored by the long wait. “Ma’am, I know we’ve never met, but I would be grateful if you’d allow me in. I—” She was interrupted by the crashing voice of thunder. There was a howling note to the wind, like a live thing denied its prey.
The old lady looked at her with more interest now. “Well now! Got the banshee after you, have you? Heh. Perhaps I ought to let you in after all.” She swung the door open, smiling a rather white and sharp smile at the wind’s protest. She grabbed Jordon as the wind suddenly tried to suck her away from the thick, iron-bound door, and pulled her firmly inside. The sudden quiet as the door slammed was almost eerie.
The woman sniffed. “Nothing like hemlock and iron to keep out unwanted guests.” She picked up her old-fashioned oil lamp from a side table and glanced at Jordon. “Come. You’re dripping on the floors.”
Jordon glanced around as she followed her hostess, taking in the dusty elegance of the house. “I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself. I’m Jordon Hearst.”
The old lady raised a brow that was nearly as thick as her nose. “You may call me Mrs Yuimen. I am the keeper of the kitchens here.” As she spoke, she led the way through a great hall with a polished table and murky floors. “The housekeeper has left us some time past and has yet to be replaced. You can see it needs attending to.” She spoke as if this were somehow Jordon’s responsibility.
Jordon blinked. “I see.” She was unwilling to offend Mrs Yuimen, lest she be given the boot. “I really appreciate –”
“Yes, yes,” Mrs Yuimen interrupted. “Now, be seated and I’ll pour you some tea.” She entered the kitchens as she spoke and gestured to the rocker and stool before the old brick hearth. A one-eyed cat looked up from the rug there and growled a warning as Jordon shuffled over, choosing the stool. She didn’t want to take what must surely be the cook’s customary seat.
She cast a wary eye at the glaring, reddish-coloured cat and the odd green flames of the fire. “I’ve never seen a fire burn green before.”
“Driftwood,” Mrs Yuimen said as she moved efficiently about the kitchen, setting up a tea cart.
“Oh,” Jordon said, disoriented. “Are we by the sea?”
Mrs Y. cast her an odd look but otherwise didn’t comment.
The kitchen was so spotless as to seem a world apart from the rest of the house. Mrs Y. had enormous worktables that, while nicked and battered enough to be fifty years old, were polished to a high sheen. Stacks of wooden bowls and crockery lined the shelves, and ropes of garlic, onions and herbs hung from the beams. The stone floors were neatly swept, and the tiled, wood-burning cooking stove was free of soot and food residue. Even the copper tea kettle was brightly reflective.
When she’d assembled the cream and sugar and such, Mrs Y. rolled the cart over to Jordon and poured the tea.
