A Magical Trio

by A. A. Albright

  I opened the lid a crack, just showing him the weapons and books, with the cloak covering everything below. ‘So this makes me a witch hunter, right?’

  He studied me for a minute, finally saying, ‘I suppose it does,’ before rolling himself back into his office. ‘Come on then,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I’ll tell you what you need to do next.’

  I followed him, watching as he moved over behind his chair and looked through his messy piles of paper. A sudden urge came over me and, as surreptitiously as I could manage, I took out the magnifying glass once more. I wandered over to the heavy, drawn curtains, pretending to dust the windowsill beyond. With the cover of the curtains to hide me, I peered through the magnifying glass at my uncle.

  He still looked like a fat, annoying, sexist uncle, but with one slight difference. There was something in the centre of his forehead. A small, white circle, tinged with turquoise and surrounded by black. It was feeble, sure, but it was there.

  I moved out into the hallway. There was a mirror there, and, with the magnifying glass at my eye, I looked at my reflection. My own forehead had a circle, too, right in the centre, but it was nothing like Faster’s. The turquoise was so much stronger in my image, bursting out of the white circle and almost completely engulfing the black.

  I heard the squeak of Uncle Faster’s wheels and quickly stowed the magnifying glass away.

  ‘What’s up with you, Katy?’ he asked as he arrived in the hallway. ‘You’re acting strange.’

  ‘I just … Uncle Faster, I know now that you’re right. The world isn’t what I always thought it was.’

  ‘Ah.’ He nodded knowingly. ‘And you’re frightened of it. You want things to go back to normal. That’s all right, Curly Kate. I half expected as much.’

  ‘No!’ I shook my head vehemently. ‘I don’t want to go back to normal. I want to learn more about what I am. What witch hunters are. And in the meantime, I want to track down Diane Carey. I can do this, I know I can.’

  He lifted his face a little, regarding me. ‘Now, don’t go getting ahead of yourself. First things first. You’ve got to go and see my partner. He’s the information man. He’s the one who knows all about computers and gadgets and whatnot. He thinks he might have found an address for Diane. And if he trusts you, he might agree to let you take my place on the case. But … are you sure, Katy? Are you one hundred percent sure that you’re ready for this?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m ready.’

  7. Clear as Müd

  Lies by omission are still lies, and I’d always had a problem with every kind of lie, whether it was a little lie, a big lie, or – my least favourite – a compounded super-lie. The compounded super-lie, by the way, is one which combines truths and untruths into an enormous, messy ball of confusion which mows down everything in its path.

  For instance, when my dad told little-girl me that he’d be back in a fortnight, once he’d held a very important rehearsal with his backing dancers, that was an example of a compounded super-lie. He wasn’t back in a fortnight. But he had been busy rehearsing with his backing dancers – one, in particular. She was the first woman he left my mother for. She didn’t last long. There were a string of dancers after her, followed by models, actresses, and other minor celebrities. All the while my mother put her career on hold to bring me up.

  Today I’d been telling an awful lot of lies of my own, and it made me feel like the lowest of the low. The worst thing of all was that I wasn’t quite sure why I was lying to my uncle. Sure, I’d managed to convince myself that there were legitimate reasons but the truth was, I was lying to him because that was what my gut told me to do.

  I needed to know more about Aunt Jude, about witch hunters, and about the supernatural world in general before I told my uncle about the smaller box, or about his pointy-toothed neighbour. Maybe this partner of his would fill in some of the gaps. And even if he wasn’t any more knowledgeable, at least he couldn’t be as sexist as Uncle Faster. Could he?

  My uncle told me that he and this Moody guy shared an office above a bookshop on the quays in the city centre, so I hopped on a bus and made my way there. The bookshop was called Quay Questions, and I’d never even heard of it, let alone been there before.

  My uncle’s instructions on what to do once I arrived had been strange – like everything else lately – but I decided to follow them to the letter.

  I made my way cautiously inside, with the tinkling of the bell above the door announcing my arrival. The store was almost as messy as my uncle’s house, with over-filled shelves in no discernible order. There were books stacked untidily on tables, as well as in big old baskets and boxes. Quite a few were simply piled right on top of the floor.

  ‘You can’t just walk right on up to the office,’ my uncle had explained. ‘You need to enter through the bookshop first. There’s a code word, and they won’t let you up to Moody without it. In case you’re, you know, an evil witch from the pits of Hell.’

  He’d told me to give the code word (which turned out to be a phrase rather than a word) to ‘the woman in the shop,’ but all I could see was a young girl – maybe sixteen or so. She looked like she was on work experience. While I was searching for another member of staff, the girl approached me.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked timidly.

  I looked around desperately, but couldn’t see anyone else.

  ‘I’d like to buy a traditional German sausage, please,’ I said in a whisper.

  The girl looked at me in the same way as I would have looked at me. This was a second-hand book store, after all, not a deli.

  ‘Who’s it by?’ she asked with a frown.

  Oh fluff! Had Uncle Faster forgotten to give me the answer to the follow-up question? Just as I was um-ing and ah-ing, the floor below me opened up and I staggered back. A stout redhead peered up through the trapdoor she’d just opened and said, ‘That’s all right, Ria. I know the book she needs.’

  As Ria ran away, the older woman climbed out and, in a whisper, she said, ‘I’m Shirley. The book you’re looking for is in the Mystery section. Third shelf down. You’d better go alone. I don’t like to go back there these days.’ Her voice lowered some more, so that I had to lean closer to hear what she was saying. ‘Once you’ve found the book, pull it out and follow the stairs to the third floor – the second is private apartments, so do not knock on those doors. When you arrive at the third floor you will see only one door. Knock twice, pause for four counts and then knock six more times on the door.’

  Before I could ask her more, she dived back down through the trapdoor and pulled it shut behind her. It seemed like that was all the help I was going to get from Shirley. I poked about the shop some more, until I finally spied the Mystery section in a small alcove at the back. On the third shelf down on the back wall, there was a book called: Traditional German Sausage Making. That had to be it, surely.

  I pulled the book out, then jumped back as the shelf began to move. I found myself staring into a narrow, poorly-lit hallway with a staircase leading up.

  I headed up the stairs, past rows and rows of more dusty books. There were a couple of doors on the next floor, but I assumed those were the private apartments Shirley had mentioned, so I kept going to the third floor, where I did my best to follow her door-knocking instructions. A moment after my second round of knocks, the door was drawn open by a man wearing crumpled slacks and a short-sleeved shirt. He was tall, with dark brown hair which was greying at the temples. His whole demeanour spoke of weariness, from the dark bags beneath his eyes, right down to the scuffed shoes on his feet.

  ‘You’re not Faster,’ he said.

  I shook my head. ‘I’m his niece. Katy.’

  ‘Ah. Curly Kate. I suppose he could hardly make the stairs with his broken legs. But he seemed determined to send anyone but you if he couldn’t make it himself. You do know you’re a woman, right?’

  ‘I’m aware,’ I said. ‘And if you’ve got the same problem wit
h that that my uncle does, then frankly, you can go and bite me. I’m offering my help here, so either man up and take it, or sod off and find Diane on your own.’

  He began to laugh, but it had a creaking, awkward sound to it, as though he hadn’t oiled his laughing muscles in quite some time. ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I think we’re going to get along just fine, Katy.’

  He hastened me inside, where my eyes roved around the office. There were a couple of narrow hallways which seemed to lead to the kitchen and the bathroom. The main office was open-plan, but it had been divided into three distinct work areas, each holding a desk, as well as some filing cabinets and shelving.

  It was clear which of the three belonged to Uncle Faster, because it was even messier than his office at home. A much neater work area seemed to belong to this man, because there was a steaming cup of coffee on the desk. On the wall behind that desk, there was a poster of a UFO, with the caption: I Want to Believe, But I’m a Sceptic at Heart.

  The third workspace looked completely abandoned. ‘That’s Miss Soorly’s desk,’ he said, noticing my gaze. ‘She prefers to work in the shop these days. Detective work got a bit too much for her.’

  ‘The woman downstairs? I thought she said her name was Shirley.’

  ‘It is. Shirley Soorly.’

  ‘And you’re Moody?’

  ‘Well, I’m not, as it happens. I am neither a moody man, nor a man called Moody.’ He pointed to the nameplate on his desk. It said Peter Müd.

  ‘Mr Mud.’ I extended a hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. My uncle said–’

  He looked down at my proffered hand and made no move to shake it. ‘I’ll just stop you there. My name is not Mud. I repeat, my name is not Mud. There is an umlaut on the u. It’s pronounced mood.’

  ‘Ah. Hence the Moody.’ I dropped my arm back to my side. ‘Listen, Mr Müd, my uncle says you have some sort of info about Diane’s whereabouts. He said if you trust me, you’ll let me take his place on the case.’ I looked him up and down. ‘Which makes me wonder, if you know where she is, why can’t you just track her yourself?’

  He fixed me with a steady gaze. ‘Not that you want to talk yourself out of a job or anything.’

  ‘I don’t,’ I replied. ‘I really don’t, believe me. I’m just curious.’

  ‘Your uncle would say that curiosity is a wholly feminine trait.’

  ‘Clearly not. Men get curious too. Otherwise neither of you would be private eyes, would you?’

  A smile played at the corner of his lips. He seemed about to say something, but his phone buzzed, and he looked down at the screen. ‘It’s a text from Faster,’ he told me as he read the message. ‘He says that you can see things that other witch hunters can. That you could even open Jude’s Toolkit.’

  He turned off the phone and slid it into his shirt pocket. ‘And I’m not a hunter, by the way, which is why I’m not running around after witches. I work on your uncle’s hunches, you see. Follow the trail he sets, see if I can find anything to back up his hunch. And if I can, then I work at finding out whatever information I can to aid him further. I suppose you could call me a hacker. I prefer to call myself a desk detective.’

  He took a sip of his coffee, and nodded towards the kitchen. ‘Would you like some refreshments, Katy?’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  He took another sip. ‘Now. According to Faster, I have to decide whether you’re worthy of tracking down this wayward witch of ours. So tell me, do you believe in witches, Curly Kate? And by witches, I mean servants of himself down below, with hearts as cold as ice.’

  At least he’d gotten the phrase right. ‘I think so. I mean, I certainly believe there’s something to it all. I guess I’ll know for sure if I ever manage to track down this Diane Carey. What about you?’

  He looked down at his tidy desk. ‘Well, I … I don’t not believe in what I described.’

  ‘Wait … why are you running this agency with my uncle if you’re not sure?’

  ‘I didn’t say I’m not sure. I’m just not not sure. If you see what I mean.’

  Of course I did. It was clear as Müd. Titter.

  ‘Jude worked on hunches, just like Faster,’ he went on. ‘Although he has a lot more respect for his own hunches than he had for his aunt’s. She held a very interesting Toolkit by all accounts.’

  I shrugged. ‘Weapons and books, mostly.’

  ‘Mm hm.’ He nodded his head, scribbling some notes. ‘Weapons and books. Very good. Now, Katy, I do have an address for you. But it makes no sense to me.’ He pulled a card from his pocket and slid it across to me. ‘See what you make of it.’

  I palmed the card. It was dark red, with black, thorn-like edging. The letters, printed in a scrawling black font, read:

  Ned’s Necromancy – the one-stop shop for all your necromancy needs.

  Find me on Samhain Street, Dublin 8.

  Swallowing, I did my best to hide my surprise. Samhain Street had been one of the places mentioned on Aunt Jude’s map. ‘Strange address,’ I said evenly. ‘Where did you get this card?’

  ‘I found it on the street where Diane Carey broke your uncle’s legs,’ he explained.

  ‘I thought you preferred to be a desk detective.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Well, when my colleague’s been badly injured, even I have to leave my comfort zone. But that’s not important. What’s important is that such a strange address could well be evidence. Does it ring any bells with you, Katy?’

  ‘Should it?’ I countered. ‘I mean, does it ring any bells with you? You’ve been at this business a lot longer than I have, after all.’

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing I could name off the top of my head. Samhain is Irish for November, of course. I hear tell that it’s also the name some witches used for the Halloween or Oíche Shamhna festivities.’

  ‘It’s July, Mr Müd. Nowhere near Halloween.’

  ‘No. Indeed. But perhaps … perhaps you should take inspiration from Jude on this one. See where your feminine hunch leads you.’

  I snorted. ‘Faster would love that.’

  He ran a finger around the rim of his mug. ‘Faster doesn’t have to know you’re following a Jude-inspired hunch though, does he? We could, for example, tell him that I’ve given you some much more simple information to follow. That I’ve broken the code of this address and found out where it really is.’

  I eyed him carefully. Was he trying to trap me? Make me prove that I was disloyal to my uncle? I mean, sure, I had been disloyal when I lied about the Toolkit and what it contained. But did Uncle Faster know that? Were he and Müd working together on some sort of let’s trap Katy plan?

  ‘Look, Katy, I’m not trying to trick you,’ said Müd suddenly. ‘I’m not suggesting you ought to be disloyal to your uncle in any way. It’s just that he and I don’t always share the same views. When it comes to the place of women in an agency like this, for example, we are very much in disagreement. Your uncle might believe Jude was the worst witch hunter of all time but … I happen to have reason to think differently. I think she was possibly the best in the Kramer line.’

  I sat up straight, looking sharply at him. ‘How do you know that? Do you know what happened to her? Where she is now? Why her Toolkit turned up on Faster’s doorstep?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Of course not. I’ve just pieced things together, from what Faster has said. Look, Katy, I like your uncle. I think his heart is in the right place but … he is old-fashioned. You’re fighting witches here, and if you happen to have a trick or two up your own sleeve – a hunch perhaps as to where Diane might be – then I say run with it. And if you do decide to run with it, then I shall tell your uncle that you’re following nothing but my very manly and wise advice. So how about it?’

  I sat quietly for a moment, thinking it through. I didn’t have a hunch, I had a map. And an amazing magnifying glass and a possibly magical necklace. But I was just as reluctant to tell this guy about any of it as I had been to tell my uncle.

 
‘I do have a hunch, as it happens,’ I informed him. ‘So … I’ll tell my uncle you cracked the code of this Samhain Street place, and in the meantime I’ll just … follow my nose. I mean, if you’re happy with that, of course.’

  He smiled ever so slightly. ‘I can’t say I’m happy, Katy. But I am, shall we say … cautiously optimistic?’

  8. Knowing I’m on the Street Where I Die

  Uncle Faster’s home help had turned up while I was out. She was a short, slim woman called Martha, in her late forties with pixie-cut red hair. She was also incredibly energetic, it seemed. In the short time I was gone, she’d managed to look after my uncle, clean the kitchen, cook us an amazing meal, and make up a bed for me with clean, fresh sheets.

  After dinner, Uncle Faster and I headed to his office, where we discussed my meeting with his partner. From the way he was talking, it seemed as though Peter Müd had told him exactly what he said he was going to – that he had cracked the code of the mysterious address, and that I was going to follow his manly instructions.

  ‘Me and Moody have agreed you should do it tomorrow,’ Uncle Faster said, slurping his after-dinner glass of whiskey and cola. ‘First thing in the morning – that’s when you see if Moody’s right about where that address really is.’

  I was both excited and terrified about that prospect. In the meantime, I had a whole heap of other manly instructions to follow. Uncle Faster – convinced that Aunt Jude’s weapons would be useless – was letting me borrow his Soul-Sucker knife and his binder. But he wouldn’t hand them over, though, until he trained me in how to use them.

  He was like a demented drill sergeant, going over and over the instructions, and making me practise the correct stances and thrusts, until even the bottom of my feet were sweating. Once he was (reluctantly) satisfied that I could use both without injuring myself, we moved onto the theory portion of the evening.

  He taught me about a large range of supernaturals, but went into greater detail about witches, vampires, werewolves and weredogs because, according to him, they were the ones most frequently found in Ireland. And honestly? The weredogs sounded even more terrifying than the witches. He told me one story about a hunter who had lost a kidney to a rabid one back in the seventies, and another about how a particularly evil weredog had spent decades making another hunter’s life misery, literally dogging the man’s steps until the day he died, killing everyone he ever dared to get close to. They sounded like depraved creatures, and I prayed I’d never come across one.