A rustle of fabric dragged his attention back towards the assumed office. The curtains parted with a theatrical flourish and, as if by magic, the shopkeeper appeared.
‘Morning!’ she said, beaming. ‘What a hell of a nice day!’
Paris studied the woman. She wore a plain black robe, with several golden chains round her neck. Her long, flowing hair shone a bright, almost fluorescent purple. Her face was pale, emphasised by the black make-up around her eyes and the equally dark lipstick. Paris thought she’d probably be pretty if she dressed a bit more normal. Right now, though, it was hard to get rid of the image of a demented panda.
The woman looked the two cops up and down at the same time. Her beaming smile faded.
‘As a rule,’ she said, ‘I’d be steering guys like you towards the beer supplies. But I don’t need to do that today. Do I, officers?’ She fixed her eyes on Paris. ‘Of course, you can explore if you want to. I’m guessing you’re a bitter man.’
The policemen ambled across the room.
‘I need to speak to the owner,’ said Paris. ‘Are you Cassandra du Mort?’
‘I am.’
Paris gazed around the room again.
‘Interesting place you’ve got here,’ he said. ‘Very… unusual.’
‘It’s all legal,’ replied the woman. ‘There’s no Satanic property; the animals are all roadkill. And if you’re expecting to see people being sacrificed, you’re out of luck. You’ll have to come back Tuesday.’
Paris shook his head. ‘It’s not a raid. We’re after some information. But I am curious – why have you got beer-making stuff?’
The shopkeeper shrugged. ‘Homebrew place downstairs went out of business. So I bought their remaining stock. It gets a few extra customers in here. People who wouldn’t normally come in, either. Then they root around and buy other things too. You’d be amazed how many people’s fermenting jars have got fox’s skull ornaments these days.’
Paris pondered. He couldn’t work out if she was a real witch, or a genuine nutter. Probably both. And she’d produced a serious scientific document?
‘You know about magical creatures?’ he asked. ‘You’ve written about them?’
‘I certainly have.’
She pointed towards one of the shelves on Paris’s left. Several thin grey volumes protruded from between green jars filled with large marbles. Or perhaps eyeballs. Paris decided not to inspect too closely.
‘Printed off and bound,’ said Cassandra. ‘Would you like a signed copy?’
She produced a pen from somewhere within her robe, holding it between long fingers covered in rings.
‘Maybe later,’ said Paris. ‘We want to ask you some questions. You’re a bit of an authority in this particular field, right?’
‘I don’t want to blow my own trumpet. Mainly because I haven’t got a trumpet. But yes, I am. Acknowledged by my peers, no less.’
‘You mean by other witches?’
Cassandra smiled. ‘That’s not illegal either. It’s a recognised religion.’
‘There should be a sign on the door,’ said Paris. ‘“Abandon Pope all ye who enter here”.’
The witch twirled the biro in her fingers.
‘I like that,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to get one made. But some people say God is all around us. Well, magic is all around us too. So are magical creatures. You simply need to know where to look.’
Bonetti laughed.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘In our cells!’
Paris groaned inwardly. Bonetti was giving the game away. Except the woman behind the counter had obviously taken the comment a completely different way. She stopped twirling the pen and placed it down in front of her.
‘You want to lock me up?’ she asked calmly. ‘Just for being unconventional. Just for seeing things that you can’t. I hate to break the news to you like this, but being observant isn’t a crime either. You should try it sometime. You can learn a lot about people by looking. Take you, for instance.’
‘Me?’ said Bonetti.
Cassandra leant her elbows on the wooden surface. She rested her chin on her palm.
‘You,’ she said. ‘Early to mid-thirties, almost the same as me, but you’re big and strong. Keep yourself fit. Still playing sport, my guess is rugby. There’s a hint of Mediterranean in your face, although not too much. I’m thinking one parent from Britain, one from southern Europe. You’re married. You hate shopping, but you have to dress smart for work. So every few months your wife drags you to the shops and tells you what to buy. How am I doing so far?’
Bonetti swallowed hard and said nothing. Cassandra turned to face Paris.
‘Now then. You’re what: forty-six? Forty-seven? You drink too much. You smoke. The nearest you get to sport is watching it on the telly. But you don’t do that very often because it’s not your thing. And you’re definitely not married.’
Paris frowned and didn’t reply. Cassandra laughed.
‘Oh, come on!’ she said. ‘Don’t start sulking on me! There are good points too. You’re evidently the brains of the operation. Plus you’re not bad-looking, in a slobby sort of way.’
She stood up straight, slapping her bejewelled hands on the counter.
‘I’ll put the kettle on. You’ll be tea, of course. And you’re coffee, yes? Back in a flash.’
She turned and strode off through the curtains. Paris and Bonetti stared after her.
‘Bloody hell, Boss!’ said Bonetti. ‘What do you make of her?’
Paris grunted. ‘Not bad-looking, in a completely loopy, pain in the backside sort of way.’
‘Maybe we should’ve gone to the university.’
‘No. We’re here now. I want to find out what she’s seen. Or thinks she’s seen, anyway. She may be barking, but she’s not stupid. For all I know she is the world’s expert on magic and this abracadabra shop is just an act.’
He fell silent, and the quietness hung in the air like the incense. Paris cast his eyes around the shelves again, surveying the bizarre collection stacked upon them. Hopefully Cassandra knew as much about this stuff as she claimed. When he went back to where they’d found the fairy, he needed to understand what he was looking for. He would ask Tergil, but he still wasn’t sure if the elf could be trusted. Then again, could he really trust someone who owned a place like this?
The velvet curtains flapped open again as Cassandra re-emerged.
‘It’ll take a few minutes,’ she said, flicking long purple strands away from her face. ‘Slow kettle. Obviously, if you two weren’t here, I’d be able to heat things up pretty much straight away.’
Bonetti gulped. ‘Using your powers?’
‘Using my microwave.’
Paris tapped his fingers on the counter, anxious to pull the questions away from his sergeant’s imagination.
‘You said magic is all around us. What do you mean?’
Cassandra gave him a mischievous smile. ‘There are people who can do a lot more than boil water. Things that you wouldn’t believe.’
She leant towards Paris.
‘And,’ she said in a stage whisper, ‘some of them are not very nice.’
‘I take it that means you’ve faced some sort of mystical attack?’
The witch shrugged. ‘Once or twice. Comes with the territory.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Bonetti.
Paris and Cassandra looked at him.
‘What?’ said Paris.
‘Well, are you sure it’s magic? How do you know it’s not just somebody throwing things?’
Paris had to admit, it was quite a good question. For Bonetti it was almost intelligent. He turned back to Cassandra.
‘You can tell when there’s magic nearby,’ she said, waving her hands. ‘It’s in the air. It feels like…’
Her voice tailed off as she searched for the right description. Then her eyes widened.
‘Like now!’
The two cops looked at her, unsure what to do. They jumped as something bashed aga
inst the shop door.
‘What the hell?’ said Paris.
He dived across the room and yanked the door open. A black cloud the size of a football whizzed past him, bouncing across the floor. Dust and smoke billowed out as it came to a halt, slowly taking on a shape. The thing in the cloud drew itself up to its full height, maybe thirty centimetres. A small pointed head unfurled from the smoke. More dust shot out as it flapped its wings.
Paris stared in amazement. ‘Malbus?’
‘Damn right,’ said the crow. ‘Gizza fag.’
14
Dust and muck tumbled from the crow’s wings, settling in clumps on the shop’s wooden floor. Malbus looked less like a cloud of black smoke now and more like an actual bird. A battered, bedraggled, scruffy bird, but definitely one with its head still attached to its body.
Paris walked slowly towards the creature.
‘You’re alive,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ said Malbus. ‘I’ve noticed.’
The inspector crouched down, sniffing the air.
‘And,’ he said, ‘you stink.’
‘Yeah. I’ve noticed that too. But I’d rather be living and stinking than the alternative.’
He shook his wings in demonstration. More assorted grime dropped out of them.
‘So anyhow,’ he said. ‘What have I got to do round here to get a fag?’
Paris let slip a wry smile.
‘There’s a law against smoking in shops,’ he said. ‘Although I’m pretty sure it doesn’t say anything about crows.’
He opened his packet of cigarettes and held one out in front of him. Malbus clamped his beak on it as the policeman dug out a lighter. Paris looked up at the shop owner before flicking it into life.
‘If you don’t object?’
‘Not at all,’ she replied.
Paris watched Cassandra make her way around the counter, in order to get closer, he assumed. The long black robe reached down to the floor, swishing gracefully as she moved. Her eyes were fixed firmly upon Malbus, and she seemed to be fascinated by him. She had, after all, predicted the bird’s arrival and she obviously wasn’t fazed by him talking. She wasn’t even bothered when he started puffing away on the cigarette.
‘Oh, wow,’ she said. ‘Who have we got here?’
The crow stared up at Paris. ‘Well? You not introducing us?’
Paris clicked the lighter off, shoving it back in his pocket with a sigh. Just what he needed: etiquette lessons from a cocky talking bird.
‘Cassandra du Mort, Sergeant Bonetti; this is Malbus. He’s, well, he’s the reason we’re here, really.’
Cassandra knelt down on the floor next to him.
‘I’m very glad you are,’ she said. ‘Talking animals are a mainstay of mystical tradition, though they’re usually mammals. I’ve never met a talking crow before.’
Malbus blew out a smoke ring. ‘You haven’t lived. But your man ain’t here to talk about me. I’m the reason he’s come, ’cos I told him to get some advice on magic. By the look of things we’re in the right place. Good job really, since there’s loads more stuff going on.’
The witch gave Paris a puzzled glance. ‘More? I mean, I heard about the fake fairy. It was fake – wasn’t it?’
Paris pondered. If he wanted her magical guidance, he would have to tell her some of what was going on. Provided Malbus didn’t tell her everything.
‘Not exactly,’ he replied. ‘And I guess you haven’t seen the news this morning?’
Cassandra shook her head.
‘Boy, oh boy,’ said Malbus. ‘We are gonna need to clue you in on a lot of stuff, aren’t we? Maybe not right this minute, you might have to go with the flow for a while. And, of course, assuming we can trust you.’
Paris raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you mean “we”? When did we become a team?’
‘We’re on the same side, aren’t we? We’re both cops.’
Paris stared at the bird.
‘You’re police?’ he said. ‘Magic police?’
‘Damn right. Twenty-two years.’
‘You don’t look like a cop.’
‘Course not. I’m undercover. Wanna see where I hide my badge?’
‘Not particularly.’
Malbus flicked out his left wing, turning it over to reveal the underside. Paris peered at it as more muck fell to the floor. Barely visible among the dirt he could discern a pale grey circle surrounding some strange symbols and numbers.
‘Chief Inspector Rodrig Malbus,’ said Malbus. ‘Flying Squad.’
Paris sat back on his haunches. It wasn’t enough for Malbus to be cocky and use up his ciggies. Now the bird outranked him.
Bonetti loomed over them. ‘Boss? Is this the talking crow?’
‘No,’ replied Paris. ‘He’s a singing giraffe.’
‘I thought he was dead. He got killed by the demons when he came to tell you about the fairy.’
Paris saw Cassandra’s eyes growing wider with every word. Could he trust this strange woman? He had no idea. But it appeared that he would have to.
He fixed his eyes on Malbus.
‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘Tell me what happened. We did get reports of your head on a pole.’
Malbus stared back at him. ‘So there’s a head. It ain’t mine. Didn’t you get someone to identify the body?’
Paris ignored the comment. A talking, smoking, outranking crow he could almost cope with. A sarcastic one was going too far.
‘So how did you get away?’
‘I’m in your house the other night. Telling you what’s going on. Then I realise there’s Vanethria soldiers outside. They’re a bit wary of humans, so they’re not coming in unless they have to. And I know what’ll happen if they do.’
‘Yeah,’ said Paris. ‘They would have killed me. You flew off to save my life.’
Malbus thought for a moment.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘what I meant was, if they come into the house I won’t be able to get out. But your version’s good too.’
He moved the cigarette around in his beak. Flecks of ash dropped down into the dust clumps.
‘Anyway, I took off, and I went for it. They came after me. I’m flying as fast as I can and I’m not getting away. So I dive down into some trees. What do I find – a crow’s nest! They’re asleep, see, so I pile into them. There’s all sorts of shouting and squawking, but I charge straight through. Then the V crash in, right after me. Must’ve killed the cock, probably the hen too. I dunno. I was way too busy getting the hell out of there.’
Malbus had finished his explanation. Paris waited for the follow-up statement, some sign of remorse at causing other birds’ deaths. None came. The smoking law may not apply to crows in Chorlton, but the law of the jungle evidently did.
‘So,’ said Paris, ‘they believed one of the crows in the nest was you?’
‘Ordinary soldiers, remember. Bit dumb. Not like us police. So I cleared off and laid low, in case they figured it out. Been hiding down a rabbit hole for two days.’
He lifted his dishevelled wings.
‘Seen the state of me? I can hardly fly. ’Cos the basic thing about your basic rabbit hole is, basically, it’s a hole. I’m covered in soil, bits of worm and stuff you don’t wanna know. Bunnies may be cute, but they ain’t exactly big on hygiene.’
He blew out more smoke. Obviously, thought Paris, top-quality hygienic smoke.
‘Why are you back now?’ he asked. ‘You think it’s safe?’
‘Probably not,’ replied Malbus. ‘Only I ain’t just been hiding. I’ve been busy. Got my whole network keeping tabs on what’s happening. So I heard about the centaur.’
Cassandra’s eyes widened to a new record level. ‘A centaur? Here in Manchester?’
‘Last night’s news,’ replied Malbus. ‘Big scrap in Withington.’
‘Wow! Now that I’d like to see. These days we have the wrong idea in relation to centaurs. They don’t just prance around being wise and noble; they’re traditionally wa
rriors. Excellent fighters. Lethal in close combat. Imagine something with the strength of a horse, wielding an axe or a sword. It’s not to be taken lightly.’
She paused.
‘They weren’t fighting people, I hope?’
‘Nah,’ said Malbus. ‘Demons.’
‘Oh. Well, that’s alright then.’
Paris despaired at both of them. Police in the magic world were evidently a bit more liberal in giving out information. Especially to nutters.
He stared down at Malbus. ‘What else can you tell me? We already know about the portal.’
The crow’s black eyes sparkled. ‘You figured it out. Good. This is what I came to tell you in the first place. But do you know about the centaurs going to it and what happened on the way there?’
‘You mean before the fight in the street?’
‘Yeah. See, according to my sources, they were heading into Didsbury, ready to go back like good little ponies. Only the Vanethria won’t let them through. There’s some sort of row, ’cos centaurs ain’t keen on being ordered round at the best of times. They’re proud. Or, if you like, stroppy. Anyway, they take off into Manchester, with the V after them. They get a couple of miles, then it all kicks off. Kaboom.’
Paris frowned. The groove along his forehead felt familiar, if not comforting.
Cassandra tutted.
‘You are going to wrinkle your brain,’ she said. ‘As well as squash your aura.’
Paris carried on frowning.
‘Makes no sense,’ he said. ‘If the demons want magical creatures to go back to the magic world, why are they stopping some from going?’
‘Dunno,’ replied Malbus. ‘Maybe ’cos the horse people were in armour and the V reckoned they were gonna cause trouble?’
Cassandra shuffled towards Malbus on her knees. ‘The – what did you call them? –Vanethria? They’re the demons, right? Plus there’s a real fairy as well? And this is happening here? I would say you were making it up, but…’
She looked down at Malbus.
‘Yup,’ said the bird. ‘Living proof. Here it is, in black and black.’
‘Right,’ said Paris. ‘Living. Something else which makes no sense.’
‘What do you mean?’
Breaking the Lore Page 8
