by K. E. Mills
“Take heed of your incorrigible friend, Mr. Dunwoody. There are those around him who are less than friendly. He would be wise to curtail his exuberance-and you would be wise to encourage him in that pursuit.”
“And you’re only mentioning it now?” Reg demanded, and hit him again. “Gerald Dunwoody, what’s the matter with you?”
“I’m thinking concussion,” he snapped. “Now lay off me, Reg. As it happens I’ve been waiting for the right time to say something to him. But there hasn’t been a right time. He’s been too busy climbing the walls.”
“That’s true,” said Melissande, after another silence. “And I’ve been too busy pouting to notice. Gerald-”
“Yes. Of course I’ll look out for him. Trust me, Melissande, no matter what it takes I’ll always protect Monk-even from himself.” He snorted. “ Especially from himself.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, then kissed his cheek. “And good night.”
“Good night, sunshine,” said Reg, getting ready to flap after Melissande. “See you in the morning.”
Bugger. He couldn’t stay cross with her for more than five minutes. “Night, Reg. Sleep tight.”
She looked down her beak at him. “And while you’re busy worrying about that Markham boy,” she added, “spare a frown for yourself, Gerald. Because I’ve got a nasty feeling in my water things are about to hot up around here.”
Oh, Reg. Shaking his head, he watched her join Melissande at the front door of the old building that housed the Witches Inc. office.
Ignore her, Dunnywood. She only says things like that to make you hop.
But still… as he put the jalopy into gear and pulled away from the pavement, he couldn’t ignore the nasty tickle in the back of his mind that said maybe, just this once, Reg wasn’t wrong.
CHAPTER TEN
By the time he got back to Chatterly Crescent, Bibbie was nowhere to be seen and Monk was in the parlor brooding into a glass of finest aged Broadbent brandy and poking at the pine branches burning cheerfully in the fireplace.
“She’s barricaded herself in her workroom so she can play with her ridiculous ethergenics,” his friend said, not turning away from the crackling flames.
Damn. Am I that bloody obvious? “What? What are you talking about?”
Monk gave the burning logs one last good shove then leaned the poker against the hearth. “Come on, Gerald. I know you’re keen on her. And I don’t want to insult you. But-”
Suddenly cautious, he headed for the drinks trolley and poured three fingers of brandy for himself “But if you lay a hand on my sister it’ll be pistols at dawn? Monk-”
Brooding into the leaping flames now, Monk hunched one shoulder. “Don’t Monk me, mate. You think I like having to say it? You think I think you’re not good enough? If you think that you’re an idiot. Bibs could travel the whole world and she’d not find a better man.”
He swallowed half his brandy in one gulp, poured himself a generous finger more, then retreated to an armchair.
I was wondering when we’d get around to this conversation. Funny, how when it comes to tricky things to say we always seem to find ourselves in the parlor, with the brandy.
“It’s all right,” he said, even though it wasn’t, really. Even though a tight knot had formed under his ribs. “She’s your sister. Your only sister. You love her. You want to protect her. And when you look at me all you can see is danger.”
Monk swung around to face him. “So. You do understand.”
“Don’t you be an idiot, Monk,” he said tiredly. “Why the devil do you think I’ve not breathed a word to her?”
“Oh,” said Monk, after a moment, and retreated to the other armchair. “Right. Sorry. I should’ve realized-”
“Yes, you bloody should’ve.” He tipped the rest of the expensive Broadbent down his throat. Probably not a good idea, given that the pancakes he’d had for supper weren’t noted for their alcohol absorption properties, but in that moment it was hard to care.
“I mean,” said Monk, determined to flog the expired equine, “let’s face it, Gerald. In your line of work you’ve got old agents and bold agents but no old, bold agents. At least none that I’ve seen. And you’re pretty bloody bold, mate. And come to think of it, as far as your Department’s concerned old is something of a relative notion. Sir Alec’s what-in his fifties? And he’s the oldest fogey you’ve got.”
Sadly, that was true. “I’m not arguing with you, Monk.”
Monk swallowed more of his own brandy. “Bibbie’s still practically a girl. And the bald truth of it is that I don’t want her widowed before she’s grown her first gray hair.”
“Neither do I.”
“It’s just-you need to understand a brother’s position, mate,” said Monk, waving his almost-empty glass for emphasis. “I don’t want Bibbie’s heart ripped out of her chest and thrown onto the ground and-and stomped to mush. I mean-I mean-what if there were sprogs, Gerald? What if you and my little sister fell all the way in love, and you got married, and you had a baby, and-and then that bloody icicle Sir Alec sent you off to somewhere like-like Tarikstan, say, some thaumaturgical hellhole, anyway, and you got yourself killed and there’s Bibbie with a baby and no husband and what kind of a brother would I be, eh, what kind of a loving brother would I be if I stood back and let that happen? I ask you?”
Gerald looked at him. “Um-just how much brandy have you had?”
“That’s not the point,” said Monk, jabbing a finger at him. “The point, my friend, is-”
“Yes, I know what the bloody point is,” he snapped. “So long as I’m a janitor I can’t afford to get myself tangled up in petticoats.”
“Hmmm,” said Monk, and leaned back in his chair. “Don’t think Bibs wears petticoats, actually. Something about suffrage-although I couldn’t say for certain. I wasn’t really paying attention at the time. You know what she’s like. Once she gets on a hobbyhorse she tends to ride it to death.”
“A Markham family trait, it would seem,” he murmured. Then he sighed, and put his empty glass down on the small table beside him. “Look. Monk. I’m not about to pretend I’m not fond of Bibbie, because you’re my friend and I owe you the truth. So. The truth is I’m very fond of her. And if circumstances were different I’d throw my hat in the ring, petticoats or no petticoats. But as you say, my circumstances are precarious and I don’t want Bibbie’s life ruined or her heart stomped to mush any more than you do.”
“Good,” said Monk. “I’m happy to hear it.”
“Really?” he said, considering his friend closely. “Because you don’t look happy. You look like a cat that lost the canary. You’re not still bothered about the thaumaturgic limit, are you? Because that’ll be lifted in no time, Monk. The whole bloody thing’s a storm in a teacup anyway. It’s politics. Face-saving. If you weren’t a Markham I’ll bet nobody would’ve said boo.”
“I know,” said Monk. “It’s not that. And anyway, I’ve fiddled a way around the bloody limiting, haven’t I? Because I am a Markham and we never say die.” He pulled a face. “We might say ouch a lot while they’re trying to beat us to a bloody pulp but the fateful word die doth never pass our lips.”
“Then what is it?” he asked. “If it’s not the bureaucrats playing silly buggers-what’s the matter?”
Monk rolled his head on the armchair and stared into the fireplace. The flames’ warm, reddish glow cast deep shadows and remolded his face. He looked much older all of a sudden, solemn and serious and nothing like himself.
“Plummer wants me to make him a new shadbolt-breaker.”
Odd. Given Monk’s work in R amp;D, that didn’t seem to be an unreasonable or even an unusual request. At least not unreasonable or unusual enough to explain his friend’s out-of-character low spirits.
He frowned. “Plummer?”
“You don’t know him?” said Monk, eyebrows lifting. “Huh. I thought you knew him. He’s Errol’s new boss.”
Errol. Gerald felt his nerv
es twitch. Bloody Errol Haythwaite. I could live the rest of my life quite happily never hearing that name again. “We don’t mix with the domestic agency, you know that. Besides, I’m under strict instructions to stay well away from him. As far as I’m concerned, Errol Haythwaite’s dead.”
“I know,” said Monk, and shifted his somber gaze back to the flames. “Still. I thought you might’ve-ah-”
“What? Ignored a point-blank order and be keeping tabs on him under the table?” He shook his head. “No, Monk. You’re the one who likes living dangerously. I’m the one trying to keep his nose clean.”
Monk’s half-smile acknowledged the hit. “He’s doing pretty well, actually. Our old chum Errol. Flying through the domestic agency’s training program like a witch on a broom.”
And that made him smile. “I wouldn’t use language like that where Melissande or Reg can hear you. Not unless you want to get poked in the unmentionables. And what the devil are you doing, Monk, spying on Errol? Are you a glutton for punishment? Do you want to get suspended, or worse?”
“Hey,” said Monk, with a trace of his usual energy. “Nobody ordered me to pretend Errol’s dead. And I don’t trust that smarmy bugger. The way he weaseled out of what happened with the portal network-”
Oh lord, not again. “Monk, he wasn’t responsible for what happened with the portal network.”
Monk stared in outraged disbelief. “How can you say that, Gerald? He practically colluded with that bastard Haf Rottlezinder!”
“No, he didn’t. And can we please change the subject? Defending Errol Haythwaite makes me want to throw up.”
“Ha! Then don’t defend him!”
“ Monk…”
“Fine, all right, sorry,” Monk muttered, slumping again. “But you’re bloody unbelievable, Dunnywood. Is there a vacancy in the Pantheon of Saints or something?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Now, about this Plummer and the shadbolt-breaker he wants you to whip up for him. What’s that about? I was under the impression the Department’s awash with shadbolt-breaking incants.”
Monk nodded, morose. “It is. At least, we have plenty that’ll break an ordinary shadbolt. But-”
“I won’t breathe a word,” he said, as Monk hesitated. “If this is classified. But if you’d rather not risk it that’s fine. No offense taken.”
“Idiot,” said Monk, giving him a look. “I’m just… ordering my thoughts. The thing is, Plummer’s people brought someone in for questioning but he’s shadbolted to the eyebrows and they can’t unbind the bloody thing without killing him. Everybody who’s anybody in Plummer’s outfit has had a crack at it-and they’ve all failed. Seems the wizard who designed it is the same nasty bastard who helped Permelia Wycliffe with her black market magics. The wizard in custody’s one of his minions. And since Permelia’s completely off her trolley and there’s no sign of her climbing back onto it any time soon, that means she can’t tell us anything about him. And since Plummer’s only lead to him is this shadbolted lackey, well-they’re in a pickle.”
“And they want you to unpickle them? Well. It’s a compliment, I suppose.”
Monk snorted. “Some compliment.” With a flourish he finished his brandy. “You won’t have heard, Plummer and his lot are playing their cards close to their chests, but whoever this black market wizard is? Seems he’s not pussyfooting around. That tycoon the other day-Manizetto?”
He had to think for a moment. “I don’t-no, wait. Yes, I do. The man who tripped and fell in front of the bus in Central Ott?”
“The man who appeared to trip,” Monk said darkly. “Turns out he was hexed, courtesy of our mystery wizard-and you did not hear that from me. I’m telling you, mate, whoever this bastard is he’s got to be stopped. Which means I’ve got to unbind the shadbolt on Plummer’s prisoner without harming a greasy hair on his head.”
Gerald whistled. “You’re right. I take it back. It wasn’t a compliment. What are you going to do?”
“Well…” Monk tossed his emptied brandy glass from hand to hand, frowning. “As luck would have it the weasely little minion was carrying a spare shadbolt on him-of course, he won’t say why-but the only way to unravel the incant’s matrix is to muck about with it while it’s active. And as hard as this might be to believe, I couldn’t find anyone who was willing to let me shadbolt them so I could play.”
Even though this wasn’t funny, he still had to chuckle. “No, really? Mr. Markham, I’m shocked, I tell you. Shocked.”
“Yeah, well,” said Monk, and pulled a face. “Smart ass.”
They grinned at each other, and for a moment the shadows seemed to lift.
“So,” he said, spuriously casual, “I don’t suppose you brought the spare shadbolt home with you?”
Monk contrived to look outraged. “Mr. Dunwoody, how can you even suggest such a thing? Removing a sensitive piece of evidence from Department premises would be against the rules! ” He put down the empty glass and slid out of the chair. “Don’t move. I’ll just nip upstairs and fetch it.”
But he did move, to the drinks trolley, and splashed a little more brandy into each of their glasses. Monk returned to the parlor soon after, carrying a small, innocuous-looking wooden box.
“Blimey,” he said, still holding the brandy glasses, as Monk unlocked and opened it. A sick, protesting surge in the ether churned echoes in his gut. “That’s nasty.”
“Told you,” said Monk, staring at the shadbolt-crystal nestled in a cradle of old lamb’s wool. “Have a read of it, Gerald, and tell me what you think.”
But before he could put down the glasses and take the small box, the parlor door flew open and Bibbie rushed in. “What is that? Monk, what the devil are you playing with?”
“Oh,” said Monk, blankly. “Bibbie. I thought you were mucking about with your silly ethergenics.”
Bibbie had changed out of her lovely peach-colored muslin day dress into a shapeless green cotton shirt and baggy tweed trews- curse you, Melissande- and had covered up most of both with a stained and slightly charred thaumaturgist’s apron. Her long golden hair was bundled haphazardly into a scarf.
“Forget it, Monk,” she snapped, her glorious sapphire eyes alight with temper. “You’re not going to distract me with a cheap shot like that.” She pointed at the hex box. “Powerful witch, remember? Etheretic sensitivity rating right off the charts? Now what is that abomination doing in this house?”
Monk dragged his fingers through his floppy hair. “Rats,” he muttered. “Bibbie-go back upstairs, would you? Please? And forget you ever saw this.”
“No, I don’t think I will,” she said, folding her arms. “Perhaps if you’d been a little less sarky about my ethergenics-”
“ Please, Bibbie!” said Monk, alarmingly close to desperate. “This isn’t a joke. It’s bloody dangerous. I can’t have you-”
“You’re telling me it’s bloody dangerous,” Bibbie snapped. Nose delightfully wrinkled, she stepped closer to the hex-box and stared at the hazelnut-sized black crystal inside it. “And more than that it’s familiar.” She looked up. “This was made by the same wizard who made Permelia Wycliffe those fake jewels and the hex she used to kill her horrible brother.”
“Come on, Monk,” said Gerald, as Monk gaped at his sister. “Did you really think she wouldn’t make the connection?”
“I was hoping all those ethergenics had scrambled her brain!”
“Well, that was ridiculously optimistic of you, wasn’t it?” said Bibbie, poisonously sweet. “If eleven months of Reg’s lectures haven’t sent me doolally then what makes you think ethergenics could make a dent? Now, Monk, for the last time- what is going on? ”
She even had a beautiful scowl. Watching her as Monk quickly explained his dilemma, Gerald felt his heart thud painfully against his ribs. It wasn’t only her beauty, though that tended to strike him dumb. No, it was her wit and her audacity and her brilliance that seduced, leaving him weak at the knees and struggling for breath.
Cold,
damp misery settled over him like a cloud.
Forget it, Dunwoody. You and Bibbie can never work out. Not unless someone finds a cure for being a rogue wizard.
“Right,” said Bibbie, when Monk finished his tale. “So let me see if I’ve got this straight. In order to catch the black-hearted wizard behind all kinds of nefarious, murderous and wicked skulduggery, you need to find out how to unbind that shadbolt. Yes?”
“Yes,” said Monk, nodding. He looked distinctly harassed. “But you can’t help me, Bibbie. This is supposed to be a secret. I’m not supposed to have this hex. I’m not even supposed to have told Gerald about it, and he’s a government secret all by himself. If anyone finds out I’ve told you then trust me, my head will not only roll, it’ll get stuck on a pike and paraded through Central Ott.”
Bibbie smiled at him brightly. “Don’t be silly, Monk. Of course I can help.”
And before they could stop her she snatched up the shadbolt-crystal and popped it in her mouth.
“Oh, Saint Snodgrass,” Monk said, breathless. “Emmerabiblia Markham, what the hell have you done?”
Ignoring him, Bibbie pulled a face and flapped her hands. “Ew-ew-it tastes disgusting!”
“Bibbie,” Gerald whispered. Mouth dry, heart thundering, he took a step towards Monk’s crazy sister then stopped. “Bibbie, what’s happening?”
“Nothing yet,” she said. “The wretched thing’s still dissolving.” She pressed a shaking hand to her middle. Beneath the bravado she was horribly afraid, he could see it. Feel it. Bibbie. “Honestly, boys, when you catch this dreadful man can you take a moment to explain to him the many and varied uses of sugar?”
Monk was standing so still he might’ve been nailed to the floor. Looking at him, Gerald realized this was the first time he’d ever seen his friend terrified.
“Monk,” he said urgently. “ Monk. It’s all right. We’ll get her out of this. She’ll be fine.”
Slowly, painfully, Monk dragged his agonized stare away from Bibbie. “You don’t know that.”
He grabbed Monk’s arm and shook it. “Yes, I do. I do. Now pull yourself together, Mr. Blue-Eyed Boy Genius of the R amp;D Department! You want to waste the chance Bibbie’s given us? That shadbolt’s going to activate any moment so bloody well get focused. ”
