The Devil's Paintbox. Robin Jarvis

      Verne groaned and, as he did so, a gust of wind came funnelling down Flowergate and caught up the rest of the notes. They whirled like autumn leaves in a tornado, then came swirling over the road, heading straight for him.

      He spun around and ran across the river. The vortex of cash pursued him, catching up before he was even halfway across the bridge. Next minute he was encased by a violent storm of money. When he tried to yell, some flew into his mouth. Spluttering and thrashing his arms to clear a space in front of his eyes, he lurched into Church Street.

      In Whitby Gothic, Mike Wilson was unpacking a stock delivery.

      ‘Plastic pumpkin baskets?’ he exclaimed. ‘There must’ve been a mix-up – we never have tacky tat like this. I’ll ring the supplier and send it back.’

      His wife, Cassandra, was sitting behind the till, removing black varnish from her fingernails.

      ‘I ordered it,’ she told him. ‘Punters expect it so we might as well flog it.’

      Mike looked at her with concern. Ever since their schooldays, Cassandra had professed to be a witch and dressed accordingly. But lately she hadn’t bothered with her usual elaborate eye make-up and had started wearing baggy T-shirts and stretch leggings instead of the Victorian-style gothic dresses she loved.

      ‘You all right, Cass?’ he asked.

      ‘I’m fine,’ she said with a vague shrug.

      ‘Because you’d never normally allow a pumpkin in the shop. You’ve always said you can’t stand the Disneyfication of All Hallows’ Eve. We’ve always had traditional turnip lanterns.’

      ‘No one makes plastic turnip lanterns,’ she answered flatly. ‘And most of our customers couldn’t care less anyway. Don’t think I do any more either. Does it matter? It’s just junk for the tourists. I’m giving in to consumer demand.’

      Mike thought she’d given in to more than that, but he kept quiet and took the box to the storeroom. As he returned to the main shop, a commotion in the street caused him to look out of the window.

      ‘What’s going on out there?’ he wondered. ‘Cass – come look at this. It’s snowing money!’

      Church Street was choked with swarming banknotes. Shoppers and holidaymakers were leaping to catch them, pausing only to stare at the bizarre spectacle that came staggering over the cobbles. It was a churning cloud of money, reeling clumsily from one side of the street to the other.

      A fifty-pound note blew against the shop window and Mike peered closely at it in amazement. A twenty joined it, then another cluster of fifties.

      ‘Them’s genuine!’ he exclaimed. ‘There’s a fortune in jumbo confetti flapping about out there. Has a bank exploded?’

      The light dimmed as more notes papered the glass, and a small hand slapped the pane, right in front of Mike’s nose, making him jump. Then a familiar face thumped against the window and howled for help.

      ‘It’s Verne!’ Mr Wilson cried, wrenching the door open and plunging into the freak windstorm outside.

      The strings of bells and charms that hung around the door frame rang and clattered madly as the tempest burst in, along with Verne. Cassandra hurried from the till to help. It took all their strength to slam the door shut as the screaming wind focused its full fury against it. For long, anxious moments it juddered and quaked, then all was suddenly quiet. The bells stopped jingling and the money that had flown inside with Verne fluttered gently on to the floor. Outside, the wind dropped to a soft breeze and three hundred thousand pounds went dancing down the street.

      Verne sagged in Mike’s arms, gasping and shaking.

      ‘You OK?’ Mr Wilson asked.

      ‘Been better,’ he panted, trying to sound as casual as possible. ‘Having a bit of a peculiar morning.’

      ‘No kidding. Your face and hands are bleeding.’

      ‘Paper cuts.’

      ‘I’ll get the first-aid kit. So what just happened – that wasn’t normal. Was it, er . . . was it . . . umm, you know?’

      Smoothing her storm-lashed hair, his wife moved away from the door. She looked with disdain at the money littering the shop.

      ‘He wants to know if it was supernatural in origin,’ she said tersely. ‘You’d think, owning a witchcraft shop, my husband wouldn’t be so coy about it. Was it something to do with our Lil?’

      Verne shook his head.

      ‘No, but it wasn’t a natural thing.’ He squirmed. ‘I, er, can’t say any more.’

      ‘I see,’ she said, bending down to pick up the notes. ‘More mysteries and intrigue we’re excluded from.’

      ‘Where’s Lil?’ Verne asked. ‘Isn’t she here?’

      Before Mike could respond, his wife snorted.

      ‘Course Lil isn’t here. She’s with her. Where else would our daughter be these days?’

      ‘Go easy, Cass,’ Mike said. ‘So, Verne, how’s your mum and dad?’

      The boy gave an awkward shrug.

      ‘Noreen still behaving like a two-year-old throwing a tantrum?’ asked Mrs Wilson. ‘She always did cut her nose off to spite her face.’

      Verne frowned. She and his mother had fallen out. The Wilsons’ shop had made a large profit from the trouble back in the spring. In a moment of stress, Noreen Thistlewood had made a comment about it and a row had flared up that had not been resolved.

      Mrs Wilson was about to say more when there was a beep from the counter, followed by the sound of the till drawer sliding open on its own.

      Verne winced. The Nimius’s power was still exerting itself.

      ‘Take this,’ Cassandra said in a far-off voice as she pushed the cash she’d collected at him. ‘Mike, get the takings as well.’

      Her husband went to the till, but Verne made a dash out of the shop.

      Church Street was a lot emptier than it had been five minutes ago. Verne pelted over the cobbles, nervously hoping the supernatural gale wouldn’t return. He knew where Lil was now. There was only one ‘her’ who was that important to his best friend these days – Cherry Cerise.

      Racing to a narrow entry that led to one of the yards behind Church Street, the boy rushed up to a cottage with a brightly painted yellow door and a letter box framed by garish red lips.

      Verne rang the bell with one hand and knocked with the other.

      ‘Hey!’ a brash voice called from inside. ‘Get your sticky digit offa my ding-a-ling! What is this, a raid? I’m warnin’ you, I go from nought to riot real quick.’

      The door was opened by a slender woman in her sixties, wearing a neon-blue wig and a minidress covered in large orange circles. She stared at him through yellow sunglasses.