Swift (Strangetown Magic Book 1)

by Al K. Line

  He looked up at me with hate and humiliation, then panicked and checked to see who was watching. The sprite and I stared, faces impassive, and watched until they left without another word.

  Why is it that some people feel the need to make others feel small because they think they can? The Rift has done one great favor for humanity, it has shown us in our true light, and slowly but surely the bad apples are getting tossed. Maybe one day all that will remain will be kindness, but for now all we have is hope, and on days like this I have serious doubts about whether we deserve to be saved or if all we deserve is each other.

  The sprite picked up my bags again and we walked while I munched on dry cereal, ate a banana, and looked forward to a proper meal when I got home, wherever home was now.

  I made a call once my stomach gave me permission, then had a lovely conversation with the sprite while we wandered through the streets towards the destination I was given.

  I tried not to frown at the new choice of home when we finally made it, gave a generous jolt of magic to my new friend as he put down my shopping, and felt rather good about myself. The now five feet and growing young aide wandered off, whistling and with a spring in his step.

  Sometimes it's nice to feel useful.

  Now, about this house.

  Bit Religious

  "A church! You have got to be kidding me," I said as I stepped inside the admittedly impressive building.

  "What? It's nice, isn't it? All this head room," replied Mack, stretching out with his arms, arching his back and looming—he's really good at looming.

  Zeno was beside him, looking just as happy, spinning in a circle, face practically angelic. "It's amazing. It feels a little more like home. Why you humans live in such little boxes when you have large houses like this to live in, I'll never understand."

  I put the shopping down on a pew and said, "It's not a house, it's a church. You can't live in churches." I thought for a moment. "Well, people do, once they are deconsecrated or something, and I guess people renovate them, but this is different." I wasn't sure how, but it simply isn't the kind of thing you do, is it? I was a little muddled, unsure of the situation, and I hate feeling that way.

  Could we? Was it all right? I wouldn't want to step on anyone's toes, literally or divinely.

  My friends just stared at me, at a loss. They were merely pleased they had found something that could accommodate Mack now he was back being himself, itself, again.

  I was still annoyed with Zeno from earlier, but knew I was as much to blame as him. We both understood what was happening, he just acted, trying to do something about it. But it was a bad idea and my life was full enough of trouble already. Zeno kept looking at me, silently asking if everything was okay, so I mouthed a quiet, "I'm sorry." He nodded, understanding.

  The attraction went beyond thinking of each other as hot, it was deeper, much deeper. I can't tell you for sure how he felt, but for me it was like you've searched your whole life for your soulmate, that one person who will understand you, protect you, hold you in the night as you weep onto their chest, stroke your head and tell you everything will be okay in the morning even though you both know it won't be.

  And it turns out to be a person of a different species that you know will never work out even though you pray with all your heart it will. It wasn't natural, though, not true emotion. It was the strange mix of our chemistry, not true, genuine feelings, and that made it all the worse.

  Or maybe it's just me and he liked the look of my bum.

  "Can we stay? Let's shack up in this joint and call each other Monica. Or, ooh, ooh, you can be Willis, Zeno, and I can turn to you and say, 'What you talkin' 'bout Willis?' It will be such fun," boomed Mack, like he had to ask permission for anything. He could have lived in Buckingham Palace if he wanted to, I'm sure nothing could stop him. It's a stroke of luck demons are nice folk, otherwise we really would be well and truly screwed. The references to old TV shows were getting right on my nerves, though.

  I stared around at the large space, the empty pews and the scattered bibles, the cross on the wall and the small door at the far end which I guessed led through to... Okay, I had no idea. Did the vicar live in the church? Was it a bible storage room, or what?

  Trying to think back to what the place had been like before, I was sure it used to be for services and for local events—toddler classes, flower arranging, all that sort of thing. Maybe there was a kitchen and a fridge.

  "Let's check it out first, okay?"

  "Spiffing," said Mack, heading for the door.

  "Whoa there, big guy. You stay here. We don't want any more broken walls today, do we?"

  "Oops, forgot."

  Zeno led the way, and we went to see what was what.

  He closed the door behind us, and wasting no time said, "I'm sorry." He looked so down, emotions raw, opening up to me which I knew was hard, next to impossible for his kind. They are usually about as emotional as a sloth on benzies.

  "Me too. Zeno, you know we can't. If it's hard now what do you think it will be like after? You could be gone at any moment and I'm not about to risk getting involved when all I'll be left with is hurt."

  "I understand, and I feel the same."

  If he did then why was he licking his lips with his wet, pink tongue and "accidentally" brushing back his hair to reveal those ears, then waggling his eyebrows—god, those eyebrows. And then why was he rubbing his thigh, making me look there? Damn sneaky bugger.

  "Come on, let's take a look." I tore my eyes from prominent bulges and tried to ignore the feeling in my belly—it wasn't because I was hungry.

  Turns out the place was perfect. There was a small series of anterooms that could be for storage, a well-stocked kitchen with a fridge that would be fine after a clear out. The water worked, maybe an oversight or maybe nobody wanted to cut off the church, or maybe the bill had been paid, and there was no sign of anything having been used in months, probably since the Rift.

  There was a compact living room, a cramped bathroom, and even a small bedroom. It sealed the deal.

  "I'll sleep out in the main church, with Mack," offered Zeno.

  "You sure?"

  "Um, if you're offering?" He nodded at the cot in the nice, but simply furnished bedroom.

  "No, no, I didn't mean that. I mean are you sure you don't want to sleep in the living room? It looks cozy with the fire."

  "I prefer the large spaces. Did you know that in my own world I was an important man and I slept in—"

  "Spare it, mister, I've heard it all before. You aren't important here, and you don't get a palace. You get a cold church and sleep with a demon. Can you imagine what he sounds like when he's snoring." I wasn't even sure if Mack slept, what with him being immortal. But then, if elves slept maybe demons did too?

  Back out in the church I suddenly realized something, it was really rather warm. Of course! Mack, many degrees warmer than me, was heating the room up nicely. A portable heater, result!

  "Okay, I guess this is home now. Can you two deal with setting it up, getting the furniture and everything? We can make a nice big living room out here once the pews are moved, and, er, Mack, are you sure you feel all right?"

  "I feel most content, thank you. Why wouldn't I be?"

  "Because it's a church. A church of God, and of Jesus, where people come to pray and they go to heaven."

  "Oh, I've heard about all that, but that's not my sector. Faith doesn't make a difference to a demon. It's what you do while you are on earth, what you feel in your heart, the real you, that's what counts. Haha, did you think I would be scared?"

  "Not scared, no. Just wondered if faith did something funny to you."

  "You humans, you really have no clue, do you?"

  "No, guess not. Maybe you can fill me in some time."

  "Sister, you know that's not how it works."

  "Can't blame a girl for trying." I'd learned a lot since I'd had more time to spend with otherworldly Strange, yet there are many things
they simply cannot tell. It's more than a law, it's built into their very fabric. They can't tell you what you don't already know about the truth behind reality and what happens next.

  I knew some of this from endless encounters with various creatures over the centuries, but the conversations were always fleeting, usually under sufferance, theirs, so having Mack with me was a real eye-opener.

  They are tied to us, and us to them. We are the reason many supernatural beings exist, but Mack said that there are endless versions of demons, infinite to accommodate infinite species, each with their own versions of afterlife. But he couldn't actually explain it, not how it works, merely confirming what most of us already know deep down—that you need to be a good person underneath all the nonsense.

  "So, what are you cooking?" asked Zeno.

  "Bloody hell, Zeno, you really need to give me a break."

  New house, different species, same old male nonsense.

  On the Case

  It's not that Strangetown is inherently dangerous to live in, although of course it is slightly intimidating. Many Strange from the Rift are nice, friendly folk, just different. But they don't see things the same way we do, mainly because certain concepts are entirely alien.

  Take a demon for example, one of the ones that worked in what I guess us humans would call hell, although most do no such thing. They understand death, in that humans die and then for many it's down to the fiery pits for a spot of torture. Demons do their thing in endless gross and nasty ways that should make you ensure you never end up where they live. They know we die, but they also don't really get it, because some of us end up there.

  They have a job to do so do it, and think little beyond the work. Death doesn't compute, as if we are there then how are we dead? So they can be careless now they are here, not treat frail, tiny humans with the gentleness they need. It leads to problems, mostly of the broken and dead human kind.

  Same with so many other creatures. They aren't mean on purpose, they can't understand the concepts.

  It's the immortality thing, it skews your world view.

  Until recently it was just humans, nothing else. Nobody knew about magic actually being real at all. But then we went public and it was pretty smooth sailing. Everyone adjusted. The vamps got donors queuing up, wizards and witches got good jobs, and some of us became official Justices. We kept our kind, the Strange, under control. Once a bad word, we took it back, and it's stuck.

  It was a good job. It beat trying to hide and always moving on, but ever since the Rift it's been a major headache with no rest, and we've been left to it here at the center of the problem. Deal with it yourselves, was the consensus. The police simply couldn't hope to cope and with so few Normals remaining you can't really blame them—they aren't equipped to deal with beings that are magic to the very core.

  So I was on yet another job.

  What did I take with me as I left the church? Nothing, just me, my phone, and my magic. I had the clothes I wore, no need for a sweater as I can change body temperature at will, and I don't need wands or talismans or anything like that.

  I'm not a noob, I've got experience, and all those aids went out with my apprenticeship. Now I have it inside of me, can call it from the Pool, use it, and it is who I am. A witch. A Justice. A fighter. A woman.

  I marched out, confident and with a full stomach. Ready for action, ready to right wrongs, and ready to kick ass.

  So I felt a bit daft popping my head back around the door and saying, "Don't forget to get Mr. Moppet. I didn't have chance to pick him up, what with all the falling walls and everything." I may have blushed.

  "We won't," came the smiling replies.

  Look, Mr. Moppet is my only personal link to my past. A tattered rag of a thing, not much of him left, but he's a rabbit doll, made by my mum, and I have slept with him every night since I was born.

  No laughing!

  I left again, but the effect was ruined, so I skulked out and really wished I had a hat but no way was I going back in now. I have standards to maintain.

  I stood on the steps outside my new home, breathed deep, and smiled. "Another day, another job in Strangetown."

  Same Old Crap

  I felt like I'd come home as I stepped into what you would call a pub, although that's being mighty generous. The carpet was so faded, so beer-stained, so full of burn holes from decades of cigarettes—although now we have to stand outside in what Yuki calls the beer garden and the rest of us call the place around the back where all the crap gets stored—the air so thick with vapor from a wide variety of alcoholic drinks that I swear you don't even need to buy anything to get half drunk.

  Yuki Ye was behind the bar, same as always. He's as timeless as the pub itself—imaginatively named Ye's—and the only place in town you could possibly consider going to if you wanted a drink without feeling like you'd stepped into a marketing nightmare. I've watched it happen over the years, seen every pub in the city morph from a dark, smelly, intimate place with personality, to a bright, airy, sweet-smelling faux "Olde Worlde" place with about as much charm as a comatose politician.

  It's nearly all gone now, same as the cafe's, the restaurants, the lot. Everything is a chain and everything feels the same. Boring, unwelcoming, and alien. Things are changing back though, and that's because of our new friends. They have brought diversity and character, and I embrace it.

  Ye's is legit, the real deal, and not a lot has changed inside for over a century. Sure, he bought carpet when they came along, updating from sawdust, but that's about it. It's been there ever since, same as the wooden benches, chairs and stools, same as the bar that has more knife wounds than Yuki Ye himself, and the beer is to die for.

  Standing in the entrance, just sniffing the air, watching dust motes dance in the light streaming through the open door, admiring the yellowed pictures of scenes from ancient Japan mixed with those of customers in various states of inebriation on the dreaded Wall of Shame, it calmed me, allowed me to put my rather insane morning behind me and think of the future, of what needed to be done. This was the best place to start.

  I let the battered wooden saloon door close behind me, the creak of the hinges as familiar as the grinding of my knee that I have to fix every few years now—old age, comes to us all, I guess.

  The noise inside was bearable as it was still only early afternoon. Late nights are too much and I can't be bothered with the hassle. Too many fights, and Strange fights are never fun, even when you are half gone on one of Yuki's wondrous cocktails.

  A few stalwarts were hunched over tables, nursing pints and reading the papers, there were a couple of new faces talking excitedly at a table, wide-eyed and snapping away with their cameras like Ye's was the best thing they had seen in their life, and two wizards were trying to play darts, no easy thing with the bent bits of metal as old as time itself.

  Feet sticking to the floor like I was some kind of gecko, I made it to the bar and sat on my favorite stool, it's got my name on it and everything. The hard wood is so smooth you slide off unless you sit in exactly the right spot, so I took my time, wiggled my ample behind until I was assured of my safety, then put my elbows on the bar and rested my head in my hands.

  My reflection in the dirty glass wasn't cheering me up as I looked exactly like someone who's house had fallen down, who'd been chased by a troll, watched a new friend squished, and had to cook lunch for an elf and a demon before starting her day's work.

  "Pint please, Yuki," I mumbled, turning away from the image that depressed the hell out of me.

  "Bad morning?"

  "Sometimes it feels like a bad life."

  "Different day, same old problems, eh?" Yuki drew my beer, perfect as always, then set it down gently in front of me. I took a sip and things felt a little better instantly.

  "Yeah, something like that. Aah, that's good." The beer slid down easier than an eel on a slide, the temperature perfect, the dark liquid bitter and delightful. This is real beer, none of that mass produced
crap you get in the new places. This is brewed locally, by professionals with pride in their work, and the bonus is it's damn cheap too.

  I slipped a few coins onto the counter for Yuki. He scooped them up, flipping one into the air and catching it on a wrinkled and faded tattoo-heavy elbow—one of his party tricks.

  Yuki smiled and carried on cleaning the bar. He's an odd one, been here for as long as I can remember, and apparently one of the first wave of Japanese immigrants to settle in the UK, way back when. Rumors go he was heavily into the Yakuza life right back when it was starting in the seventeenth century, and his ink, now so faded and smudged it's hard to tell what's what, seems to confirm this. Why he won't wear a damn t-shirt I don't now, but as long as I have known him he's been this wrinkly dude with a slender and toned body covered in more scars than should be possible if you are still breathing.

  That's Japanese Yakuza wizards for you, I guess. Quirky in his old age, whatever that may be, but enduring. Timeless, and dangerous as hell if you ever try to mess with him.

  He must be ancient, like thousands of years ancient, so how he got embroiled in gangster life after so long is a mystery, but for him to look like he does, and to be so powerful with magic, means he's a proper old-timer. This magic we have, that we have gained access to, it doesn't stop you aging totally, but it sure as hell slows down the process. Not immortality, but as close to it as you can get.

  I know for sure he was around before the birth of Christ. I've heard the stories of the man, and his tales of the world, but as for his past, for the details, the reasons why he is here, why he refuses to cover the signs of his life, he won't say.

  In other words, he's just another magic user with a past, same as us all. We all have tales to tell.

  I like him. He's nice, and he is one hell of a fighter.

  Once, years ago, somebody decided to try to argue with him, saying the beer was bad. This guy was huge, a proper barbarian, and yes, I mean literally. Club, plaited beard, the lot, and he grabbed Yuki and yanked him over the bar.