by Alexis Davie
“My father isn’t big on lore. He insisted my education was a practical one.” She felt her fingers crackle and caught the sparks out of the corner of her eyes. Even Garrick looked down as she balled her hands into fists.
“Uh oh,” he said, “the little witch is powerful. Can’t control it yet, though, can you?” Her hands were hot. “Come back when you can, hmm?”
Brin took a swig of her drink to calm herself down and give herself a second. She looked at Garrick again, his rye, thin-lipped smile, his smooth pale skin, and those eyes.
“I will,” she said. “Seems fitting—you’re living in the past, I’m about to be the future.”
There had been a growing hum of conversation in the bar up until this point, with immortals wandering in pairs and small groups every few minutes, keeping Harry something like busy, but it stopped when Garrick suddenly stood up. It was like everyone in the bar was holding their breath.
He was, Brinley had to admit, quite intimidating at full height. A long, sinewy, undeniably beautiful man, with an ethereal quality about him. And the stupid suit quite suited him. Had been made for him, probably, his wide shoulders and slim waist.
“Little witch,” Garrick growled, “if that was anything like a threat, I’d advise leaving right now.”
Brin’s heart was in her throat. Actually, it was trying to get out. That, or she was about to vomit. But she wasn’t going to give this jumped up misogynist the pleasure.
Little witch. He sounded like her father.
“I’ll go over there then, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” she said, hopping down off her stool and grabbing her bag and drink, turning, and walking towards a small side table near the loos.
3
Garrick
Garrick watched the young witch walk away, though he knew he should turn back to the bar and ignore her. She had flinched, sure, but she’d stood up to him. It wasn’t often that happened. She had something. And those sparks, that power…
Her red bob just brushed the back of her neck, which was freckled, the straight collar of her t-shirt showing where her skin turned paler again. To his surprise, she walked around the small table, put her stupid yellow rucksack down, and sat facing him, one leg crossed over the other. She didn’t look at him, just got out a slim volume and began to read.
Ah! What was…? Garrick looked down at his hand, where his cigarette had burned right down and the red of it was right at his fingers. He dropped it in the ashtray and looked at his index and middle finger—they were patched red for a second, a flash of scales, and went back to their normal creamy-white hew.
“I won’t serve her again, boss.” Garrick looked up at this. Harry was in front of him, muttering out of the corner of his mouth, polishing a glass. “I can get our people to throw her out, too? Madgrigal’s boy is over in the corner, and I can get El here in a jiff…”
Garrick held up a hand. “Nah, Harry, she’s just a fresh little witch with some attitude. Does she even know who I am?”
Harry shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone?”
Slowly, Garrick shook his head. “Not anymore, they don’t.”
Harry faded back into his bar work, in that vampire way of his of disappearing even as you looked right at him. He whispered to some scrawny young shifter girl at the other end of the bar and then walked around the bar to move boxes from the stage area in preparation for this damn quiz.
Garrick had to give it to him, he’d never seen The Gimlet this busy on a Wednesday night. Looking around, it was a rough bunch. There were mohawks and nose rings, bowl cuts and frosted tips and fur coats and… Garrick was not sure he understood fashion anymore. The realization came as something of a blow, and he had to pull his eyes away from the froth of immortals lining the walls of the pub, where long leather benches ran.
He took another look at the young witch. He wished he knew her name, but why? Why would he need to know it? Anyway, he could find out easily enough. He still had his networks, though they might be surprised to hear from him.
It was like the girl was fizzing not just with magic, but with energy. It was irritating. Garrick was determined to leave before this stupid quiz got underway, even if Harry had asked him not to. Besides, he had a council meeting later, and that was the fault of Harry’s people. But he also needed to get away from the girl. He needed to be able to think. He’d let her say things to him he wouldn’t usually let anyone say. Was he that far gone? He’d be insulted by a newly adult witch, appeared from nowhere, in front of his own people?
He felt like a limp old thing. Like he had never made a decision in his life, like he had always felt like this… felt nothing at all. Garrick called Harry over.
“I’m off,” he told the vampire. Harry sighed.
“Right. Well, they’ve all seen you, at least. Put those drinks on your tab, will I?” Garrick’s lips curled into something like a smile. Harry looked at him, expressionless. “Where are you going that isn’t here?” he asked. “Got a new human wrapped around your little finger?”
Garrick sighed, finished his drink, and stood up. “I’ve been bored of humans for a while. You know that very well.”
Harry shrugged. “Thought you might have got some of your mojo back.”
“Council meeting,” Garrick said. He pulled on an overcoat and picked up an umbrella. “Your bloody prince insists on them being after dark. Wish me luck, it’ll be all spreadsheets and falling levels of inter-species engagement. I’ll be doing my best not to fall asleep.”
“Isn’t it early for…”
But Garrick was heading towards the door, and Harry’s voice was fading into the general hum of the pub.
Garrick pulled up his collar against the predictable drizzle and turned left. This was not the way to the train and then to the council meeting in Bethnal Green. It was the way home, to his makeshift garage. It wasn’t a long walk, but it was long enough for Garrick to get that confusing London kind of wet to the bone where the rain was never heavy and your outer layers weren’t too disgusting, but somehow, you were shivering and your skin was moist and clammy.
He turned corners, unthinking, and dodged several construction sites. Eventually, he was at a warehouse. All the windows were new, wooden, beautiful, but Garrick had only renovated the first floor. For himself. The rest was empty. He didn’t need it, and he didn’t need the extra income. One day it would have a purpose, maybe. Garrick’s house was pretty much entirely open plan. There was stuff everywhere, dropped blankets, dirty plates, empty bottles. But Garrick wasn’t here for long, or to clean up, or to care. He was just grabbing his keys.
Downstairs, where the lorries used to drop off and pick up, was where Garrick parked his cars. And his bike. He walked over to the old girl, shedding his overcoat as he went. He wasn’t insane. Didn’t need a brown flowing train getting caught in a wheel.
Garrick gave the bike a pat ‘hello,’ though he rode her like this once a week at least. Then he swung a leg over her and pressed a button on the automatic garage door that was one of his biggest, bougiest indulgences.
The tires were kicking up water behind him in a long strip. He revved the engine and sped up, his suit trousers getting ever wetter, ever more stuck to his slim legs. He loved this, loved allowing himself this freedom, this rush, these moments of real intense joy and fear. He loved this bike.
But he’d felt a little like it earlier… the young witch. He’d felt a little fire between them. Maybe he just needed someone to tell him he was wrong, to tell him he was stuck in the past, or to mock him. He hadn’t been able to keep his eyes from her.
Garrick sped up. There was very little traffic on the side streets, and when he reached an A-road, it was little better. He did this a lot, usually later at night, usually not going anywhere. But tonight, he wanted more than ever not to think. He sped past residential properties and a couple of parks, a primary school, new blocks of flats, and then he was at the slip road to the motorway, and barely thinking (trying not to, maybe), he tugged the bike sideways and took
the exit so hard and fast his knees almost scraped the tarmac.
He didn’t indicate as he merged into the ends of the rush hour traffic, didn’t even glance behind him. He was barely risking injury as he slipped sinuously between lanes. Well, almost. He’d had a few drinks.
It was late enough that the going-home traffic was becoming the lorries and the tired, long-distance drivers of the evening. They were slower, so it should be safer, but Garrick wove between them at twice their speed. He tried to get close enough to feel the smallest drops of water bouncing from the lorry’s tarp, but he’d underestimated how drunk he was. The bike wobbled beneath him, his knees going sideways almost into the…
There wasn’t a lorry. He tried to look behind him, but that made him swerve into the next lane. He must have overtaken it. He must not have been paying attention. The rain was getting in his eyes, and the streetlights were blurry, passing fast on either side. Garrick was shaking a little, but he made to regain his previous speed anyway. He wasn’t that drunk. And what did it matter? It would be a real freak accident that beheaded him. He dipped in in front of a Volvo, which beeped its horn loudly. Again, Garrick increased his speed and looked around to see who he’d pissed off. He could, he supposed, kill one of them, getting his kicks like this. Or trying to, he didn’t even—
The Volvo was gone, too. Garrick turned his attention back to the road quickly. The Volvo must have changed lanes. Then it was Garrick’s exit, coming up on him out of nowhere. Without even looking behind him, he swerved across lanes, clicking his blinker on too late. He heard breaks screech, the horn of a lorry, and braced for impact, but it didn’t come. He sailed onto the ramp way too fast, his own breaks screeching in the rain, the bike almost sliding sideways.
The rest of the drive was, if not sedate, steady. He was a little wobbly but not terribly so. The cool air against his cheeks was sure to help.
The building that housed the council headquarters was a local history museum now. Another thing that always made Garrick sigh. Local history, his arse. He knew more about the local history than anyone who worked there. the whole council did. But they just had the basement rooms now, a warren of them, more than the humans knew. They had often used subterranean London in times of crisis, when the immortals had warred against one another, of the couple of periods when people had got wind of them and then got… weird. But now they were used for some transport, and for meeting like these, storage of some particularly intense magical items, that kind of thing. Anyway, Garrick had a key. A big, ostentatious gold key with a lopped and ornate end. He walked around to the side door and inserted his key, began to turn it, but the wooden, pitched door swung open before he could, and he almost fell in before he wriggled the key out.
“What the hell?” Garrick was dragged inside by a cold, white hand, and the door was slammed behind him. “Turn a damn light on, Oleg!”
The vampire snapped his fingers.
“You will not be giving the orders today,” Oleg said, though dim lights had just begun to glow. Garrick rubbed his neck, where he’d practically got whiplash on his way in.
“Clearly,” he said, “but can we get down to the chamber before I get whatever bollocksing this is? I don’t want it once from you and then again from everyone else.”
Oleg nodded, turning silently. He was so damn dramatic all the time and insisted on that cape. Garrick fingered the lapel of his jacket again.
“You’re drunk,” the vampire said, in that affected drawl of his, as he began walking down the stairs.
Garrick followed. “I’m not.”
“Always drunk,” Oleg countered, “so I suppose maybe you don’t notice. I wouldn’t know…”
“Yeah, yeah, Oleg, you’re a purist, blood only and the best of that. You’ve mentioned it a few times over the last thousand years, mate.”
The pair reached the bottom of the stairs and turned into the labyrinth of corridors. Soon, another peaked wooden door. Oleg stood in front of it, about to give, Garrick was sure, a deep and echoing knock. Garrick leaned over the vampire’s shoulder and pushed the door open. The four faces at the table, all stony, turned.
“Nice of you to join us,” said Arielle, a tall witch at the other side of the large round table, her hair piled on her head, her fingernails long and red where her hands rested. Garrick pushed past Oleg, who let out something amusingly like a harrumph and staggered sideways in a way that was clearly exaggerated.
Garrick sauntered, long-legged, over to his usual seat, scraping it against the stone-flagged floor as he pulled it out. “Let’s get this show on the road then, eh, kids?”
All eyes turned to him.
“Don’t think so.” Eli, head of the central wolf pack, leaned back in his chair. His arms were crossed.
“Bone to pick?” Garrick couldn’t help a small smile. Little werewolf joke there. He looked around the table. Not a single little grin. “Tough crowd,” he muttered.
“For goodness’ sake, Garrick! You’re a child! What the hell were you playing at tonight?” Arthur, the warlock emissary, looked genuinely livid.
Garrick shrugged. “I was ten minutes late to a monthly council meeting…”
“Not that!” Arielle almost stood up, then landed back in her chair. “Who helped you? On the M25?”
“I do not know what you’re talking about, love.” He knew that would irritate Arielle, but she didn’t let it show. Not even a twitch.
“Come on, Garrick, I know it was a witch, I can tell. And it was none of mine. So who was it? Got a new girlfriend?”
Garrick raised his eyebrows. “Jealous?”
“Enough!” Oleg attempted to boom.
“Yes,” Arthur agreed. His fingers were steepled. “Garrick, stop messing about. And stop bloody flirting, too. If you’ve not done it in the fifteen hundred years we’ve been meeting here, I don’t think it’s going to happen.”
Garrick was about to open his mouth, but Arielle shot him a hell of a look. Fair enough. She was an intimidating woman.
“You could easily have revealed us tonight, Garrick,” Arthur went on. “Vehicles disappearing from the motorway during rush hour. We can thank our lucky stars for humans texting and driving, frankly.”
Garrick tried not to look surprised. Well, he supposed that made sense. But who…?
“Considering that we’re here to talk about our imminent fucking discovery, Garrick, and you’re supposed to be in charge…”
“Supposed to?” Garrick leaned forward. “What’s supposed meant to mean there?” His voice came out a deep growl, and he felt his eyes flash with cold fire.
“Come on, you heard me. You know how your grandad got the top spot…”
Garrick bashed a hand on the table and stood, almost knocking his chair over.
“Woah!” Arthur held a hand up. “Enough machismo! Everyone sit down. Garrick, you made a damn mess. You’re lucky no one seems to have noticed. And you need to get your crap together. We have a big problem down in the south; a group of warlocks who don’t give a damn about revealing themselves. We’re doing damage control, and we need you to step up.”
“Right.” Garrick sat down. “How?”
“Honestly, you’re the boss. It’s up to you. But they’ve been flying around Sutton! FLYING! And if we don’t get them under control, we think they might be coming for the council.”
Garrick sighed. “We can’t just… get rid of them?”
Arielle rolled her eyes. “Typical man—straight to violence. The council exists to avoid that, Garrick. You know that. Your grandfather—”
“Yeah, right, no more red in tooth and claw…”
Oleg opened a big black bag, slipped some papers over the table.
“This is the information,” he said. “I know you do not like the screens.” Oleg nodded at Garrick. He approved of this traditional approach.
“One week,” Arthur said, “and if you don’t come up with something, we will. And we might need to… reshuffle things.”
Garric
k grabbed the papers, stood. “Is that a threat?”
Arthur shrugged. Arielle smiled. “Remember to call off your witch, whoever she is. And yeah, I think it’s a threat. Maybe try being sober next time, too?”
Oleg looked at Arthur. “The bike?”
“Yeah, we have it. Garrick, you’re getting the tube home. Unless you can find somewhere very secure to shift.”
At full height, Garrick towered over the others, even when they were all stood. He let his eyes sweep around the table, knowing his eyes were doing that thing again, shining with the dragon inside him, and that his jaw was hard-set and his cheekbones sharp. He didn’t say anything. He turned and walked out the door, through the maze of corridors, to the drizzly night where his bike wasn’t.
Garrick headed for an empty car park nearby. No way was he taking the tube.
On his walk, the gears were turning. A witch… a witch…
But why would the little witch have been paying any attention to his journey? How would she even know?
4
Brinley
She had found the notice on a corkboard by the loos.
Bedsits for those suitable. Good prices. Witch-run.
And an address, a road she was sure she had walked along earlier. She was going to go and ask, wondering if she was ‘suitable.’ She looked down at herself. She didn’t look unsuitable. Or she didn’t think so, anyway. She took the notice.
The tall, intriguing man, Garrick… He had left a little while ago. The name was familiar. He was some kind of big wig, she was sure…And then as she was leaving the bar, the barman, Harry, had whistled at her. She went over slowly, a little suspicious, and leaned against the bar.
“Little witch,” Harry hissed at her, his breath dirty with beer and cigarettes.
“Brinley,” she said, with the hardest edges she could muster. “It’s Brinley.”
“Whatever,” Harry said, “it doesn’t matter. You’re not settling round here. You pissed off our dragon king.”
