A Mage's Gambit: New York Falling (A Malachi English book)

by Andy Hyland

‘You always did. The only thing that’s changed is that you can see them.’

  ‘Demons and monsters and magic, oh my.’

  I’d walked again on a way before I realized Jerry wasn’t there anymore. I turned round and he was just standing there, A few meters back. I could have answered his question, the one we all come to, but it’s best to let them ask it in their own time.

  ‘So what am I?’ he asked, helplessly. It breaks a piece of my heart every time.

  I walked back towards him. ‘We call ourselves the Aware – humans who have been what you’ve been through, one way or another, and came out the other side different. Magic-aware. Mages. We don’t belong here anymore, not really, and we know more about some things than we ever wanted to. But it is what it is, and you learn to deal with it. Or you don’t.’

  ‘And if you don’t?’ There was no answer to that question that he wanted to hear. After a few seconds of silence he got the point. ‘I’m screwed, aren’t I?’

  ‘No,’ I told him. ‘Don’t let yourself think that. Life’s different now, but it’s still life, and it’s not over. And hey,’ I punched him on the arm, ‘you’re not alone in this, right? Come on, let’s do some work.’ And get your mind focused on something else. Because no matter how long you’ve been at this, you can’t let yourself dwell on it. You can only stare into the abyss for so long before the urge to jump becomes almost overwhelming.

  The James Monk Memorial Medical Facility, or Jimmy’s as I’d come to think of it on the drive over, stood at the corner. Quiet part of town. Only a few cars in sight. Non-descript tan building with a brass plaque outside. Could have been anything to a passer-by. Little would anyone suspect that a wide selection of dead people on ice lay within. Including a man with no nuts.

  I looked Jerry up and down. Jeans, jacket…he didn’t fit with what I was about to try to do. I might pull it off, but he wouldn’t. And we didn’t have time to change.

  ‘Look, I’ll be five minutes. Stay here, don’t talk to anyone.’

  ‘You’re dumping me?’

  ‘Five minutes. You’ll live. Don’t do anything stupid. And what are we going to remember?’

  ‘Face to face with a demon, scream and run.’

  ‘Correct. Five minutes. Then I’ll take you on the grand tour. Introduce you to everyone you need to know. Magic stuff. I Promise. It’ll be fine.’

  And, like an idiot, I really thought it would be.

  The inside of Jimmy’s was as slick as the outside was discreet. Spotless cream walls, black tiled floors, and a flawless receptionist who looked like she’d stepped straight out of one of the glossy brochures that were neatly stacked on her desk. She gave me the once over, clearly not as impressed with me as I was with her.

  ‘I’m sorry, but this is a private facility,’ she said through a thin smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘And you need an appointment booked in advance.’ Another glance at my coat. ‘Well in advance.’

  ‘I’m here from Emsworth Funeral Directors,’ I said, in the tone of someone who is used to being in places like this. Never apologize or be too well-mannered – that plays into their hands. If you’re going to bluff, go in aggressively. ‘I’ve been sent to take some measurements for Neville Compton.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Mr Compton is currently…’

  ‘The subject of police attention, yes, I’m aware of that thank you. But Mrs Compton is very keen to progress with arrangements.’

  She leant back in her chair, blue eyes getting the measure of me. ‘I fine that rather odd, Sir, given that his wife is currently under arrest for Mr Compton’s murder, and is, I would imagine, rather too taken up with other matters to be concerned about funeral arrangements.’ She smiled sweetly.

  Admittedly that came as a surprise, but I’ve been around the block too many times to get thrown so quickly or so easily. ‘I would have thought it was clear,’ I said, ‘that I was referring to his mother. Look,’ I slid an extremely professional business card across to her. ‘I have come here at very short notice and I would prefer not to have my time wasted. Please call my office and they will confirm matters.’ My ‘office’ being a selection of phone numbers on different cards depending on who I wanted to be, all diverted to my mate George Duvalis. He checked the number being used and answered accordingly, making all necessary confirmations. I got where I needed to go, and he made a few quid. Everyone wins. A nice scam that worked with most people. Not quite good enough here.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ she said, slipping the card back across to me. Oh, she was good. ‘In a matter like this I’d prefer confirmation directly from the police.’

  ‘I quite understand,’ I said, smiling now. ‘Please call the nineteenth precinct and ask for Deputy Inspector Dialgo. Tell him Mr English is here, attempting to take care of business.’

  ‘Certainly,’ she said, faltering slightly. ‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ nodding across to a leather sofa against the far wall. I wandered over and remained standing. I picked up on of their brochures from a glass table and flicked through. Exactly what you’d expect. A rather unnecessary service provided to people with money to burn. Get your loved ones stored here, in case they’re upset by having to share a morgue with the homeless or the blue-collar workers. Heaven forbid. On the other side of the room the receptionist finished speaking to Inspector Dialgo. Five months ago his cousin had been incredibly stupid, getting drunk and mucking about with a Ouija board. Cue a five-week possession by a real git of a minor entity that I eventually put paid to. When I found out who Dialgo was, I declined to be paid in cash and instead got four favours. This used up number two.

  ‘Excuse me sir. If you’d like to follow me.’

  Wonderful legs, a tight pencil skirt and high heels. I can honestly say that following her was the absolute highlight of my day. The bodies on ice were down in the cellar, a spacious expanse of chrome and marble. Each stiff had a private room with chairs, tissues and state-of-the art cooler. It would be difficult to imagine a more pointless waste of money. A body’s a body. You get it on loan for a bit, look after it as best you can (or not, as the case may be), and leave it behind when you move on. This was just senseless.

  ‘Mr Compton is in suite seven,’ she said, punching in a five-digit code on a pad. The door glided noiselessly open. ‘Use the intercom to let me know when you’re ready to leave.’ I nodded, wondering how much needless technology you could stuff into a small space.

  The cooler itself opened in the old-fashioned way – a stiff lever that swung down, unlocking the small square door. Neville slid out in a standard NYPD body bag. I unzipped it and let out a long breath. I’m far past the point of being squeamish in the face of death, but somebody had really done a number on him. Deep wounds covered his torso. Cuts to the fingers and wrists – self-defence at a guess. And, for the sake of completion, I checked out downstairs. Brutal.

  Brutal, but normal. Normal in the sense of: no magic. There was nothing unusual or demonic about this. These were knife wounds, not claw or teeth marks. And there was none of the acidic tang that lingers after an aggressive casting. His wife did this? Okay, I could buy that. But nothing before me explained why Melanie had been abducted by Carafax. Or the painful hex on the business card.

  I placed my palm onto his chest, closed my eyes and concentrated, stretching out my senses, looking for something, anything. Merely a gaping void, the emptiness of a soul departed. Except…around the edges, so delicate that I nearly missed it. A touching, an influence. Neville Compton had never known possession, and he’d certainly never been Aware, but he’d been close to things he should never have known about.

  Apart from that small clue, there was nothing else here, and nothing worth sticking around for. ‘Happy trails,’ I muttered, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice as I zipped him back up and slid the empty shell back where it had come from.

  I wondered briefly about looking round, seeing what other stiffs were down here. Maybe there were some celebrities. On balance though, wi
th this job, a swift, quiet exit was preferable, so I made my own way out, with a stiff thank you and farewell to the receptionist as I left. All said and done, not bad.

  Jerry wasn’t outside. I tried to keep the panic down as I checked the connecting streets and alleys, ending up at a job. Nothing. Back outside Jimmy’s I caught my breath and considered the options. Wandered off by himself? Not likely. If I was him I’d be sticking to me like glue. Like an idiot I hadn’t checked if he had a cell phone on him, or got his number. I wasn’t expecting problems with him this quickly.

  I gave it half an hour, constantly moving and circling back, but he wasn’t anywhere. Nobody around, no shopfronts, nobody to ask if they spotted anything. Just a nagging, uneasy feeling in my gut. There was only one option left to me, and it wasn’t going to be cheap.

  Chapter five

  Madame Morgana was a clairvoyant, psychic healer and occasional seamstress, according to the garish sign gummed onto the window of the small unit stuck next to a Starbucks. It looked for all the world like a cheap racket preying on the foolish and the desperate. Somewhere to lose cash and gain nothing whatsoever.

  Which was exactly the point. If you were the most powerful witch in Manhattan, or the state of New York for that matter, and you wanted a quiet life, few things are more effective than hiding in plain sight. If anyone tried to get in they’d find the door locked and no signs of life. If they called the number they’d get a recorded message politely putting them off. Vacations, illness, no spare appointments – the excuses regularly changed, to keep it looking real, and maintained by the same George Duvalis who ran all the numbers on my business cards. He stayed busy and made good money from us, and we got a great and reliable service. Capitalism at its best – God bless America.

  I placed my palm on the door, dead centre at chest height. The door trembled and purred before clicking open. Through a dusty lobby and up some shabbily-carpeted stairs was a second door. Running up the wall on both sides were marks in various shades of brown, dribbling down the walls. These stains were all that remained of the few people who’d made it this far only to fail the second security test.

  I placed my forehead against this next door. Having seen the security measures in operation once, the nervousness had never left me. If the first door had purred, this one growled, and I felt tendrils spread into my mind, searching, probing. If you were in any way not who you appeared to be, this would be where it all ended for you. The next instant it was all over. The door gave a disappointed shudder and swung slowly open with a theatrical creak.

  ‘Who dares disturb Morgana, the mighty and terrible?’

  ‘Shut up, Becky.’

  ‘Hey, Malachi. Heard you’re having fun and games with Melanie.’

  Of course she had. People like Benny, Simeon and Becky always seemed remarkably up to date. I suspected they’d set up a limited psychic network, low key and flying below radar. Not something I could manage, but we’re all special little snowflakes with our own unique gifts as I’d been told often, mainly in a slightly patronising tone by those who could out-cast me without batting an eyelid. Me, I was great at wards – protective casts of various shapes and sizes. I’d prefer a few flashy attacks as well, but on the whole I was still alive, so couldn’t complain.

  ‘Fun and games is right. How much do you know?’

  ‘Empire State building, cops, a killer calling card by the sound of it, and a banker who’s lost some key assets. You know how it goes. Good news travels fast. But before I open up to you the mysteries of the universe and grant all that you seek, faithful pilgrim, do you want coffee or beer?’

  Rebecca Maureen O’Taitley. Five foot one in flats, unless you counted the frizzy red hair which gave her another four inches. Her mother was a herbalist in Dublin and her father a sailor from Port Antonio in Jamaica. This gave her not only smooth olive skin, but also the conviction from an early age that she’d end up as a pirate or a witch. Witching paid better, with much less hassle from the authorities.

  Words like ‘witch’ are overused, and thinking you’re something you’re not leads to bad decisions being made. The truly magically gifted are few and far between. But when it came to people like Becky, you might as well call a spade a spade.

  I took a beer and she joined me, clinking the cans together. ‘To those about to rock,’ she toasted.

  I raised my own can in salute. ‘God is great, beer is good, people are crazy.’

  She pushed a pile of magazines off an easy chair in the corner and dropped down. I took the nearest vacant seat at a small table. I wouldn’t call Becky a hoarder, but that’s mainly because she’d beat the crap out of me. Before pointing out that absolutely everything in her apartment had a definite, valuable purpose, she knew where everything was, and idiots like me should keep our traps shut when we don’t know what the hell we’re talking about. And yes, that conversation did take place. She didn’t exactly beat the crap out of me, but it did hurt.

  ‘First things first,’ she began. ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Give it a rest.’

  ‘No, come on. Arabella won’t stop going on about it. The comic book chick who’s finally got Malachi going all gushy.’

  ‘Please stop.’

  ‘Malachi and comic-book-chick, sitting in a tree -’

  ‘Fine, her name is Julie. She’s nice.’

  ‘Nice. Better-than-Melanie nice?’

  ‘Do we have to do this now?’

  ‘But I love making you squirm. Okay, then, down to business. Spoilsport. Did you see him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The corpse. You know, the one with his….’

  ‘Wow. Change of direction. Yes, Becky, I saw him. Wasn’t a great help though. Vicious, but very human. Very normal. But there was something. Barely there, but he’d been around…something.’

  ‘Wow. Such insight. Such exactitude. No wonder you’re in such demand.’

  I shrugged. ‘If there was more to find, I’d have found it.’

  ‘True. So there’s really something going down, then. Good. I was getting so bored.’

  ‘You’ve heard something?’

  ‘Whispers. A disturbance in the force.’

  ‘I’m going to throw this can at you.’

  ‘Sorry. But seriously, something’s been off. And not in a way I can pinpoint. It’s all normal, but something’s moving round the edges. Like your corpse. Something slow and old, waking.’

  ‘So what do we do, mighty Morgana?’

  She drained the rest of the can. ‘Can’t do much more than we’re doing. You hunt, I’ll listen. And sooner or later it’ll all kick off, we’ll know exactly what we’re facing, and wish we didn’t. But anyway, none of this is why you’re here, is it?’

  I filled her in on Jerry and his disappearing act. ‘Feels off,’ I finished up. ‘He knows enough to know he’s vulnerable and that I’m worth sticking with.’

  She sucked at her teeth. ‘I can help, Malachi, but I don’t know this guy, and you’re all out of favors. Business is business. Eight hundred.’

  ‘Three,’ I countered.

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Five, and I want a party bag thrown in.’

  ‘Done. Help me clear the table.’

  She disappeared into a side room and came lugging a black velvet bag. It clunked down in the centre of the table and she let the bag fall, revealing a large ornate amethyst rock. You’ve got plenty of options when it comes to a focus for scrying, and Becky wouldn’t be seen dead with a crystal ball. Which was why I bought her one as a secret Santa last Christmas. She immediately threw it against a wall where it shattered on impact – waste of money that was.

  Becky closed her eyes, calmed her breathing, and took one of my hands in hers, letting the other hover above the rock. ‘Okay, let’s do this. Bear in mind I’ve never seen the guy. Give me all you’ve got.’

  I closed my eyes and focussed on Jerry, calling what little I knew about him to mind and creating an image as clearly as possib
le. The clothes, the face, the hair. Then I pulled in a tone of voice and set the image talking. Added mannerisms like the way he scratched his cheek when he was thinking. It wasn’t much – only a few hours’ worth of experience, but it was all we had to go on.

  Becky took this projection and, amplified by the crystal, did a psychic sweep of the area. The closer he was, the more accurate she could be, but at this stage all I wanted was a rough location. I concentrated hard, controlled my breathing.

  Something was wrong. Faint crackles came from the crystal. Becky’s hand suddenly spasmed, clenching mine hard and driving long nails into my skin.

  ‘What the?’ I opened my eyes and saw blood streaming down Becky’s face from her ears and nose, bright red droplets cascading from her chin onto the table. ‘Stop!’ I tried to pull my hand away.

  ‘Don’t…you…dare,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘I’m winning, damn it. Hold on.’

  Two seconds later, the crystal exploded. I ducked to the left, catching the worst of it on the arm I threw up. At the same time, Becky threw herself backwards. Or ended up being blasted backwards. Hard to tell immediately. I put my hand to my face and felt sharp pitted fragments dotting my cheek.

  ‘Becky,’ I shouted, scrabbling over to her.

  She’d caught it worse than me. Her face was a mess, the right cheek shredded. Her shoulder was the main problem, with a protruding spear of amethyst sticking up into the air.

  ‘Becky?’ can you hear me?

  She coughed. Wheezing, spluttering. Then a smile crept onto her lips. The daft cow was giggling. ‘Now that, that has never happened before. You ever had that happen before? I haven’t. Haven’t had that…’

  ‘Becky, shut up. You’re hurt. I’m going to call an ambulance for you.’

  She shook her head and grabbed my arm. Grip was still strong. That was a good sign. ‘Forget it. I can do that myself. You’ve got to get going.’

  ‘No way. I’m staying right here with you. I’m going to call Simeon.’

  ‘Yeah, and what’s he going to do this side of dusk? I’ll live. It’ll just take a bit of time to get myself fixed up.’