LITMIR.BIZ

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owner of the Italian deli on the high street, her accent still strong after forty years living in English suburbs. And also, apparently, a witch.

      ‘Er … hi, Mrs Galantini. Terrible weather, isn’t it?’

       Great, I’m talking about the weather. I’m only sixteen and I’m already turning into my mother.

      Mrs Galantini shrugged. ‘It’s England. It rains. Now, you are not to worry. I make sure nobody else gets through here. Your grandmother and others are in the woods, casting shielding spells.’ Her eyes narrowed as she glanced at Leo.

      ‘Leo’s just here to – keep an eye on me. He’s not going to get involved.’

      Mrs Galantini made a dismissive sound – the sort of sound that clearly meant ‘Men – what’s the use of them, really?’ – and turned back to Merry. ‘Good luck, brava ragazza. I pray for you.’

      That, Merry reflected as Mrs Galantini climbed back into the warmth of her car, was not very comforting.

      They plodded along the path through the dripping trees, following the signposts to the lake. Eventually the trees gave way to open heathland, and the lake lay before them.

      ‘It’s bigger than I remember,’ Leo said eventually.

      Merry shivered. The lake stretched away from them, its farthest shore lost in the darkness. The near shore was flat, apart from one section where the land rose into a hill. A cliff, really; it dropped away sharply into the water. The restless surface of the lake, rippled by raindrops, mirrored her own disquiet. She turned to Leo.

      ‘I think you should wait here, at least until we’ve got more of a handle on what’s going on. The King of Hearts – Jack, or whatever – is only interested in attacking couples. We don’t want him to find out too late that he’s made a mistake.’

      Leo pulled a face, but he nodded. ‘Alright. Here: you should take the supplies.’ He pushed the backpack into her arms and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘I’ll just be hanging around in the bushes then. Lurking. And watching.’

      ‘Thanks. Feel free to intervene if it looks like I’m about to get murdered.’

      Walking away from Leo and from the shelter of the trees was so difficult. Merry forced herself to keep going, until she was about six metres from the lake edge. She put a plastic bin liner on the sodden ground, pulled her hood as far as it would go over her face, and sat down to wait.

      The first hour went slowly. The rain stopped. A couple of times Merry nearly fell asleep, catching herself as her head nodded forwards. She read her Twitter feed. She drank some coffee and watched the moon rise higher and higher above the treetops, washing the landscape silver. Around ten, fingers numb from the cold, she pulled the manuscript out of her pocket.

      ‘Hey, manuscript. So, where is the King of Hearts?’

       Still beneath the waters of the lake.

      ‘Still under the lake? I wish he’d get a move on.’

      The manuscript didn’t comment. Merry’s wrist itched, and she remembered the braid Leo had tied there: her entry ticket to Gwydion’s realm.

      ‘How does the braid of hair work?’

       The braid provides protection.

      Vague, but good to have confirmation.

      ‘Is it our ancestor’s hair? Did she put the protection in place?’

       No. The protection was devised by Gwydion.

      Gwydion? That couldn’t be right. Her phone beeped: Leo checking in. Pushing the manuscript back into her pocket, she picked up the phone to text him back.

      This is weird. The

      She stopped and looked up at the lake, straining her eyes to see into the darkness.

      There was nothing there. The gently shifting surface of the water glimmered silently in the cold air. Yet Merry could feel goose pimples rising on the skin between her shoulder blades, despite the warm clothes she was wearing. She pulled the zip on the coat up higher, bent over her phone again. But it was no good. Dread grew like a lengthening shadow in her mind.

      Something was coming.

      The breeze sprang up again, tumbling last year’s dead leaves across the ground and blowing Merry’s hood back from her face. She stood and hastily stuffed the bin liner into the backpack before it blew away.

       I should definitely get further away from this damn lake.

      But she couldn’t move. Her limbs felt as though the blood pumping through her veins had been replaced with lead. And she could not tear her gaze away from the lake.

      The wind strengthened, ruffling the water into waves. As she watched, a disturbance grew at the edge of the lake: the wind seemed almost to be forcing the water into a spiral, carving out a depression in the lake’s surface.

      The water started to spin, faster and faster, filling the air with flying spray, forcing Merry to fling her arms over her face until –

      – until Jack leapt gracefully on to the shore, the vortex behind him collapsing instantly back into the lake.

      The wind whipped Jack’s hair away from his face. His cloak billowed out, and Merry saw a sword belt slung low around his hips, the jewelled surface catching and reflecting the moonlight. For a moment he stood, scanning the landscape in front of him. Then he turned away from Merry and began walking in the direction of the town.

      Merry gasped as whatever had been pinning her in place – terror, or magic – vanished.

      ‘Damn—’

      She dropped her phone and fumbled for the parchment. There was a new line of writing, an instruction.

       The monster is intent on sin. Name his name to draw him in.

      There was a single sentence underneath:

       Ætstand, heortena cyning

      Was she supposed to translate it? Right now?

      ‘Seriously?’ Merry yelled at the manuscript. But Jack was getting further away. Merry swore again, and ran after him. ‘Hey, you! Jack!’

      There was no response.

      ‘OK. Um … eye-t-stenday … sinning – or maybe kinning, – hay-or-tan …’

      Jack stopped walking, turned around and stared at her.

      ‘Er …’

      He started moving towards her. Merry backed away, holding one hand out in front of her, fingers spread wide. There was a shielding spell she’d learnt ages ago – had used successfully a couple of times – but as she chanted the words under her breath, over and over, nothing seemed to be happening –

       Oh, God – where’s an insane burst of magic when I need it?

      She heard Leo screaming at her to run, but that would mean turning her back on Jack, not knowing whether he was about to catch her. Better to keep walking backwards, faster and faster, hoping not to stumble, not to fall.

      Jack grinned, and drew his sword. The blade was snapped off about a third of the way down. The broken edge was jagged and uneven.

       But probably still sharp enough to kill me.

      Merry had always thought of herself as strong. Tough, even, given all her sporting activities. But the shock of the King of Hearts’ appearance, of the brutality and bloodlust written so clearly across his beautiful face, made her feel weak and exposed, like she might just shatter at his slightest touch –

      ‘Leo – help!’

      Leo was pounding towards her across the grass, but he was going to be too late, she knew he was going

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