Almost a year passed. In the second year of college, I had moved out of the halls, and in with Wren. It meant a lot of broom or cat transport, but it still made me smile to wake up in that bed in the cottage.

Although there was something odd that morning; my boobs were being licked. Enoki’s rough tongue was working on the right tit, whereas Sophie was sloppily tonguing the left side. It wasn’t unpleasant, quite the contrary, but it was a confusing thing to wake up to.

“What are you two doing?” I asked.

“It’s my fault,” said Wren, from the kitchen, beyond the bead door. “They were in here, debating who had the best tongue. Which meant licking each other and arguing. But I’m trying to work, so I told them to go and see what you thought.”

“Hmm,” I said, stopping the dolls, giving them both a kiss. “Why are you working?”

“Veronika says that next Friday is the date for the ritual,” she said. “So I’m checking the spell, again.”

I slid out from under the dolls. Wren had finished the spell six months ago, but had been checking it fanatically since then. I picked up Enoki—it always flails adorably—and turned it end over end, dropping it next to Sophie.

“Lick each other out,” I said. “The doll who makes the other come first has the best tongue.”

I left them to it, and walked into the kitchen. Wren was at the kitchen table; she was wearing battered sweats and an old tee-shirt, her hair needed a wash, and was stuck up out of the way with pencils. She still looked unbelievably beautiful; I don’t know how I got so lucky.

“It’s Sunday morning, Wren, come back to bed,” I said, ducking to kiss her forehead.

“Working,” she said, paging through the handwritten ritual.

“You’ve checked it a million times,” I said. “It’s perfect.”

“And if it isn’t?” she said. “And you get pulled into an alien dimension? Or turned into a worm or something?”

“I trust you,” I said. “It’s fine.”

Wren continued scanning through the spell. I grabbed her hand.

“Look what your kitty did to me,” I said, and guided her hand to my breast, and the still rigid nipple.

“I know what you’re doing, you know,” said Wren, though she didn’t remove her hand. “Let me work.”

“Okay,” I said, mildly. “Just one morning kiss on my abs, and I’ll leave you to it.”

“Fine,” she said, turning to kiss—in a somewhat perfunctory manner—my belly. “And another one for luck,” she said, delivering another, slower, kiss. “Can’t have too much luck,” she mumbled, kissing again, and again. “Damn, can’t you wear pyjamas, or a gown, or something?”

“I’m heading back to bed,” I said. “You can stay here, or you can come with me. Maybe see if any of my other muscles need a kiss.”

Wren sighed. She capped her fountain pen and put it down, pushing the spell back.

“I really should—” she began.

“No,” I said, scooping her out of the kitchen chair into a carry.

“No?” she said, laughing. 

“No,” I confirmed. “You’re not making good decisions at the moment, so I’ll decide for you.”

I walked towards the bedroom.

“Oh, really?” she said. “Why do I think I know what you’ll decide?”

“I think we should see who has the best tongue,” I said.

* * *

“I hate seeing it in a cage,” I said. I clipped the key to my belt.

“It’s okay,” said Sophie; it looked sad but not distressed. I stroked its head through the bars; this was the same cage we used for the fox-doll, a couple of years back. The house was very different tonight; all staff, servants and dolls had been cleared, and most of the lights were out. It gave the place an oddly post-apocalyptic air. Like we seven—three witches, four dolls—were the last surviving entities. Enoki sat outside the cage, close to Sophie, looking unusually concerned.

“It’s just a precaution,” said Veronika. Her doll sat at her feet, a piece of tape covering its mouth. I had decided not to ask: it didn’t seem upset by it. Out of the dragon costume, it looked remarkably human compared to its mistress. 

“Speaking of which,” Veronika continued. “Are you sure you don’t want to ring your mother?”

It had been almost a year since I’d spoken to my mother; if that bothered her, she hadn’t shown it.

“Might compromise us,” I said. “She can take her chances.”

Veronika nodded. “Wren,” she said, “there are no mistakes in the ritual. But if there are, it’s too late to find them.”

Wren sighed and pushed the papers back. “I suppose.”

Veronika looked at her phone. “Curse will be back soon,” she said. “Then we can get started.”

Curse was the name that the narrator doll went by. It was, apparently, on a five-year contract with the American billionaire; it wasn’t clear, even to Veronika, apparently, who actually owned it.

As if summoned, Curse walked out of the darkness. “The grounds are secure, Mrs Marlinspike,” it said, in its weird, musical voice.

“Thank you,” said Veronika. “Please guard the other dolls as discussed.”

“Very well,” it said, utterly emotionless.

We kissed the other dolls goodbye, and went downstairs. 

* * *

The basement was bright, despite only being lit by the crystal; the witchstone was bursting, overflowing with light. 

It looked almost like we were set up for a picnic down here; there were bundles of plants, roots and berries, as well as plastic-wrapped witch supplies, and some bottles of distilled water.

We were all on edge, of course, as we gathered in a small triangle around an electric cauldron. 

“Is everyone ready to do this?” asked Veronika. “Anyone having doubts?”

“Doubts?” said Wren. “Of course, I’ve got doubts. But we ought to do it.”

“I agree,” I said. “We are going to help a lot of dolls.”

Veronika nodded. “Let us begin, Wren,” she said.

She sat for a few seconds, and then began pouring distilled water into the cauldron.

I won’t go into detail about the spell; I don’t want any trainee witches trying their own version. Everything I’ve seen written about it has gotten the specifics wrong, and I am not about to change that. 

Suffice it to say that plenty of ritual stuff happened. The athame gets used; we all have little band-aids on our palms, if that helps.

In the cooling cauldron, a dish-water coloured and evil-smelling potion had stopped bubbling.

This is the part of any ritual that my college describes as “the officiants imbibe the reagent, and try to glean power and knowledge from astral entities attracted to the infusion.” This is because orthodox British witchcraft hates to say “they get high, and punch spirits.”

We drank the potion.

* * *

This graveyard was tidy, and not particularly spooky. I tried to remember why I was in a graveyard at all. Also, why was the sky green? I made a mental note of these important questions, as I looked around.

Behind me was a mausoleum. Huge, in black marble, carved pillars, and angels and horses and… things. Oppressive. There was an impressive doorway, surrounded by pillars, with a wrought-iron gate.

Yes, I knew I’d have to go in there. Stupid vision.

The gate was locked, but I had the key on my belt. That probably meant something, but I was only in the second year of magic school.

I unlocked the gate and walked through the doorway. It didn’t look like the inside of a mausoleum; in fact, it looked familiar. A corridor in a stately home; walls lined with dark wood panels, punctuated with hunting pictures and tapestry, a faded red carpet, worn through to floorboards in spots. It wasn’t any particular corridor, but it resembled many I had seen. What was different, was the amount of junk; I mean, antiques, I suppose, but piles of them. Armour, spears and flags, vases, helmets, a ship’s wheel, marble busts, rocking horses, glass frames of butterflies and beetles, leather bound books, silver candlesticks, muskets, and a hundred other things I didn’t have the inclination to identify. All piled together, rotting; there was an uneven path left down the middle of the corridor, except sometimes I would have to duck under a pennant, or step over a spilled ivory chess set.

The corridor was long, and almost straight; occasionally, there would be a step up, or down, or a fractional change of angle. That was familiar too; the layout of stately homes was always just a little off.

I had been walking for a while, when I heard a noise—a great sloughing of debris—from behind. A corpse of some sort raised itself from the debris. It was old: clothes and flesh rotted down and mummified. I was relieved; there is no great puzzle as to what one does with zombies—and my muscles weren’t decayed. The revenant didn’t attack though, just watched me from eyeless sockets. When I stepped back, the corpse shuffled forward: after a bit of experimentation, it seemed that it was just going to follow me. Cautiously, I set off again. A short while later another corpse stood from the side: again, it seemed content to follow. Not ideal hiking companions, but I could deal with it, I suppose.

By the time I reached the end of the corridor, I had a somewhat worrying horde following me. The corridor ended abruptly in a throne, still surrounded by junk. In the throne was another corpse; perhaps mildly less decayed. Her face, though sunken and worm-eaten, had the family resemblance—the Lockwood nose—I had seen on the faces of my mother and aunts.

“Heir of Greengrave?” said the corpse in a voice like my mother’s. She rose from her throne.

“Yes,” I said. “Verity.”

“What are you doing?” the corpse asked.

“With the spell you mean?” I said. “Freeing the underdog, I suppose you could say.”

“Foolish,” said the corpse. “Go back to your mother.”

“No,” I said. I glanced at the debris, spying a narwhal tusk.

“You are meant to rule,” said the corpse. “You feel it. Your blood sings as you crush others, as they kneel before you, as their bodies break.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m a domme. Doesn’t mean I have to be a dick about it.”

“The suffering of—”

“No,” I said, picking up the tusk. “You people—our people—the whole damn class has gone too long without hearing the click of a leash coming off, without hearing a snarl, without seeing sharp teeth in the darkness.”

“You fool,” said the corpse. “Your ancestors will consume you. You will become part of our system. We will render you into something elegant; tearing apart your lumpen, peasant body—”

I ran her dessicated heart through with the narwhal tusk. “I prefer the term butch, actually.” I turned to the other revenants.

* * *

Veronika was crying; proper streams of tears. Wren’s face had a hard set, and a single tear. I suppose we had all faced some stuff. Now wasn’t the time to discuss; although, I was sure that Mrs Marlinspike would never discuss.

The witchstone and cauldron were glowing more brightly now; a bright blue-white light, cold and blinding.

Wren shook her head, and began the second part of the ritual. The spell was long; magical definitions in an archaic tongue. I repeated the bits that needed repeating, drifting into a trance as it went on.

I only snapped back to consciousness when the ghost of a puppy-doll appeared. Well, not a ghost, exactly, more an astral projection. It was a transparent blue, passing through the cauldron, and it was scared. Not scared of us, but its eyes were flicking to something we could not see, something where it was. It whimpered and cowered. It seemed to be heavily modified; its face sculpted into a muzzle, its legs shortened and rearranged so that it could easily go on all fours, its hands made more paw-like by taking off the fingers at the first joint.

We watched its body crumple as something—unseen to us—crunched into its side. Its doll ribs were probably fast healing. It whimpered again, trying to crawl away. 

We still don’t know the degree to which this was a random puppy-doll, or the ‘patient zero’, or maybe just an ethereal ur-doll.

What we do know is it started to change.

Firstly, it stopped whimpering. Hair and spines—like porcupine quills—sprouted from the top of its back. Its limbs grew longer, slender talons unfurling. Its muzzle filled with teeth. Its face, its body, sort of settled, lost the traces of humanity, to become a beautiful nightmare, a cryptid, a mix of wolf and dream. It flew at something we couldn’t see, jaws snapping, and disappeared.

Our part in the ritual was complete; the spell was still active, expanding outwards, but our part was done. The witchstone was getting dimmer as the spell worked.

“Shit, Sophie,” I said, jumping to my feet and bolting up the stairs.

* * *

Sophie was asleep, Enoki holding its hand through the bars.

“It spasmed for about two seconds,” said Curse. “Its aura was disturbed for about eight seconds. There is no sign of any damage or alteration. There was no danger.”

I unlocked the cage. Wren and Veronika were only slightly behind me. The spell should only affect maltreated pups, but—for all I knew Sophie wasn’t—I was still relieved. 

“Is that all, Mrs Marlinspike?” asked Curse. I suddenly wondered what its actual role was.

Veronika was hugging her doll. “Yes, thank you, Curse,” she said.

“Then I will resume my duties for the assignee,” it said, and walked away, onto the patio, and out into the lightening dawn.

We arranged televisions, radios and a computer, and listened for the results of the spell.

The news came in slowly. A party overrun in Knightsbridge, with guests raving about demon dogs. One dead, many injured at “The Naughty Puppy”, an illegal dollhouse. Reports of “a pack of hellhounds”, running for the Wyre forest. Unspecified disturbances at several estates.

When we were content it had worked, we all went to bed. We spent the next three days sleeping, eating and fucking, in various combinations.