Free Shadow Spell by Caro King

once bricked-up windows had been smashed open to the world and it looked like someone had done it in a hurry, with a sledgehammer, and without worrying about bringing down large parts of wall.
    On top of that, there was crowsmorte everywhere, or at least everywhere that wasn’t covered in freshly grown tiger-men. The stuff was growing up the walls and out of the smashed-in windows, it was wound around banisters and cupboards and even hanging off the wall-lamps. Skerridge suspected it covered the floor too, but since it was being used as a comfortable bed by the tiger-men, he couldn’t quite tell. Their golden velvet bodies, striped with bands of purple and fringed with ivory claws and needle teeth, curled and coiled over every inch of ground. Eyes gleamed here and there, slits of eerie purple that somehow managed to glow red.
    Terrified servants scurried around and over all the obstacles, their faces white with fear, laden down with plates of meat and bowls of blood for the tiger-men to eat and drink. Skerridge knew that the servants were part-mouse and so the tiger-men (which were, when you got right down to it, great big cats) must be giving them the horrors. Still, they were Strood’s servants and so they had no choice but to do their job.
    Everything was a terrible mess too, the floor (what you could see of it) was covered in blood, mud, fur and worse. There were horrible stains on the wallpaper, not to mention claw marks, and the furniture was beginning to look frayed and battered. There were smells all over the place, some of them very nasty and some of them the usual ones to do with cooking and fresh air. On top of all that, the racket was dreadful. Everyone shouted orders or replies, the tiger-men yowled or snarled, doors banged, feet scurried or plodded and, when the tiger-men got bored with waiting their turn for dinner, there were the screams of those servants near enough to provide them with a timely snack. Luckily, the crowsmorte was there to clean every last scrap off the bones or things could have been very unpleasant indeed.
    Just below Skerridge and Jibbit, Guard Floyd walked past, looking gloomy. On impulse, Skerridge left his perch on the stairs and fell into step behind the goblin-Grimm. Feeling the bogeyman start to move, fortunately at normal speed, Jibbit did a sideways flip and scrabbled on to Skerridge’s back. Judging by the directionGuard Floyd was going he was heading out of the House. Jibbit was finding the cacophony of sound, sight and smell almost unbearable after the lonely quiet of the rooftops, and although Mrs Dunvice had forbidden him to go back to the roof, she hadn’t said anything about outside.
    â€˜â€™Ullo,’ said Skerridge cheerfully, as soon as they had stepped through a gap in the broken walls, ‘whatcha doin’?’
    Floyd came to a sudden halt, realised who it was and got walking again without even looking around.
    â€˜Well, well, if it ain’t Bogeyman Skerridge,’ he muttered to the empty air in front of him. ‘Yew’ve gotta cheek!’ He stomped on down the overgrown path.
    â€˜Come on, mate, I only arsked. Carn’ a feller arsk?’
    â€˜We’re musterin’ an army, tha’s what,’ snapped Floyd. It was a polite snap. After all, Skerridge might be a traitor, but he was still Fabulous. ‘An’ now Mr Strood’s recruitin’ …’
    â€˜Press-gangin’ more like,’ snorted Skerridge.
    Floyd glared at him, his brow creased. He was partly puzzled by the fact that Skerridge had a gargoyle on his head, and partly by some nameless worries that had been nagging at him all day and had suddenly got a lot worse, though he wasn’t sure why.
    â€˜I’m off ter ask Lord Greyghast if ’e’ll kindly pop up an’ ’ave a chat wiv Mr Strood,’ said Floyd at last. ‘Yew ain’t gonna tell me we’ll be doin’ any browbeatin’