Borage

by Gill McKnight

  “He is very disappointed,” she was happy to report. “And when he gets disappointed, unpleasant things happen.” A clap of thunder directly overhead underscored her point. Her phone rang, preempting a promising start to a scorching tirade. She snatched it from its cradle.

  “Yes?” she barked. It was Ping. A distraught Ping, full of tears and self-pitying snot, judging by the moist bubble in her voice.

  “Repeat that.” Abby could not believe the idiocy her receptionist was burbling into her ear. She wanted to slam the phone down but was aware of Magdalene Curdle quietly eavesdropping in the chair opposite. Abby stood and turned her back on the witch to focus on Ping and her wet rendering of extremely bad news.

  “Ping,” she cut her short in exasperation, “come up here now.” Couldn’t anybody get anything right around here? Without a word, she exited her office to wait for Ping by the elevator. The Curdle witch could stew a while longer.

  The entire floor was deathly quiet. Her staff kept their heads down and worked feverishly on whatever was to hand. Even Iraldine had the sense—or perhaps survival instinct—to keep well away. The elevator doors opened, and a flushed Ping hurried onto the floor, her expression cramped on finding Abby waiting for her.

  “Well?” Abby said sharply.

  “I’ve looked everywhere. They must have taken him,” Ping said, her eyes wide with worry.

  Abby immediately dismissed this notion. “What an imbecilic idea,” she snapped. “How in hell’s blazes do you think they snuck a bloody massive hellhound out of a downtown office in the middle of the day? You saw them leave. Did they have a bulge under their coats? Maybe in a misshapen handbag?” She struggled to control her temper. “Perhaps they secreted him in their amazing hair?”

  There was no way Astral Projector and her flowery little friend could have manhandled Black Shuck out the door. He’d have swallowed them whole. Rather, they had accidently released him and now he was running amok around the countryside devouring sheep and probably sheep farmers, and leaving a great big sodding mess for her to clean up. She reached out in her mind to try and locate him. Shucky? Where are you, boy?

  Nothing.

  “That’s what I meant about their hair.” Ping sniffled, as a single teardrop rolled down her plump cheek. “They’d had a big fright. Witches’ hair does that.”

  Fright. Abby would give them a fright. She’d give them such a fright their hair would hit orbit. Shucky? Report now!

  Her anger flew across the encrypted dimensional stratosphere. Again, nothing.

  Shucky?

  What load of bollocks had he got his fat nose buried in now? Abby wanted to explode, she wanted to atomise the entire Black and Blacker building and every oaf in it.

  A distant scrabbling in her prefrontal cortex alerted her to an incoming message, except it was jumbled, nonsensical, sloppy. She could make out only one or two words. It was definitely Shucky, and he was telling her something, but it was garbled. He sounded distracted and giddy. Something shiny had caught his attention and was much more fun than talking to her. She concentrated hard but his gibberish faded before she could pick out more than a few words.

  “What is a coco-mocha-moo-moo?” she asked, her tone glacial.

  Ping blinked stupidly. “Dunno.” She sounded petrified.

  “It’s a confectionary. Made from desiccated coconut, coffee essence, and milk chocolate, to be precise.” Magdalene Curdle stood in the doorway of Abby’s office, no longer pretending indifference. Rather, she looked gleeful. “And there’s only one witch I know who makes them good enough to entice a hellhound.”

  Abby stiffened, fighting hard to keep her face a mask of human musculature and dermal tissue. She had seriously underestimated her little witch.

  “She’s fooled you.” Magdalene failed to stifle the crow in her voice, which was not at all clever. Abby struggled not to toss her out the thirteenth-floor window. “I told you so,” Magdalene continued. “Even your stupid dog knows it.”

  *

  “Hecate in a handbag, he’s a big bugger.”

  “As you know, I’ve always valued your professional opinion.” Astral handed Keeva a large gin and tonic loaded with ice and lime. Earl Grey be damned, this was no longer the time for tea, this was the time for a witch to break out the booze.

  “So, this is the critter. I’m glad I left Lupin in the car. He’d have piddled the carpet meeting this guy.” Keeva slumped into a chair by the kitchen table and stared aghast at the hellhound snoozing by the wood burner and taking up the entire hearth. “Seriously, kudos for capturing him. He’s a thumper.”

  “I didn’t. He followed me home.” A hellhound on the hearth rug was definitely not her idea. He’d already nearly eaten her out of house and home.

  “Okay, but how on earth did he embezzle all our funds? He looks sort of dumb, even for a critter.”

  “He’s not the critter—well, obviously he is one, but not the fund-stealing kind. That turned out to be our own glorious leader.”

  “What?” Keeva nearly dropped her drink.

  “Magdalene has been playing the market with coven funds using Black and Blacker as her broker. I have no idea why she sent me to look for a critter when she was the sneak thief all along, except maybe as some sort of smoke screen. And look how that backfired.” It felt very satisfying, parcelling Magdalene’s activities into a few sensible sentences.

  “Hecate’s tits! And you have proof of this?”

  Astral nodded to the stack of contracts on the table. “More than enough.”

  “This is an awful thing, Astral. I’ve never heard the likes of it. Anyone else involved?” Keeva asked, a little ruefully.

  “I’ve found no one else…so far. It could be she’s acted alone, or maybe there’re other contracts still to come to light. The one we found is bad enough.”

  Despite feeding baked goods to a hellhound, there’d been enough time to pick through the small print. It did not look good, but she was waiting for Dulcie to arrive before she unloaded her bombshell.

  “And you found this guy, too.” Keeva couldn’t take her eyes off the hellhound.

  “He was here when I got home, demanding cake.”

  “That’s why your yard was so quiet. There wasn’t so much as a twitter when I arrived, and usually your entire menagerie runs out to mug me,” Keeva said. “Can’t say I blame them with this fella wandering around. What did you say his name is?”

  “He introduced himself as Black Shuck, but apparently we can call him Shucky.”

  On hearing his name, Shucky lifted his huge head and yawned, flashing Cretacean fangs. His bloody eyes blinked open and fixed on them.

  “That’s a little unnerving.” Keeva sat straighter in her chair.

  Glees?

  “Wait. Did he just ask for glees?”

  “You heard him, too?” Astral could have cried with relief. “Oh, thank goodness.”

  “I’m a Dogwitch. It’s easy for me. He definitely asked for ginger glees and no, he can’t have any, and I hope you haven’t been feeding him cakes. It’s bad for his liver.” There was a scolding edge to her voice that made Astral very guilty when she thought of her empty cake tins.

  “Of course not,” she said. “I wisely denied the enormous hellhound the only thing he wanted. For me, his liver is tantamount. Nothing else could possibly matter.” Astral fetched the biscuit tin and Shucky’s tail began to wag frantically.

  “He recognises your biscuit barrel,” Keeva accused.

  “What do hellhounds normally eat? Souls, that’s what. They eat human souls. And I don’t have any of those in a tin.” Astral chucked Shucky the last coco-mocha-moo-moo. The glees had long gone. “He can have anything he damn well wants in this house. You take him home and put him on a diet.”

  “A sack of kibble should do him just fine,” Keeva said, ignoring the “take him home” part.

  Shucky swallowed the treat in one gulp, then rose to his full height and shook the sleep out of his bones.

/>   “Maybe a couple of sacks,” Keeva revised.

  He settled onto his haunches and regarded them happily, his tail whacking the hearth, sending a whoosh of flame up the wood burner chimney pipe.

  “Shucky will only eat kibble from now on, okay, Shucky?” Keeva lectured him sternly.

  His ears tweaked. Kibbles?

  “Okay, kibble and human souls, but Shucky’s liver will love him,” she said. “No more cake.”

  “Shucky, how did you know where I live?” Astral asked.

  His wet nose twitched.

  “You smelled me?”

  “Ya think? With a nose that size, you could live in Australia and he’d find you,” Keeva scoffed.

  A thump of his tail showed Shucky followed their conversation.

  “So, why did you follow me?” Astral asked him. “Are you lost?” She took a massive gulp of her G&T.

  Glees.

  “Okay, so you came for cake,” Keeva said. “Who is your master? Do we need to call him?”

  Death.

  “His master is dead?” Astral felt a surge of pity. Shucky was an orphan.

  “He’s a hellhound, so his master is Death.” Keeva shrugged. “Makes sense. Are you here for anyone in particular?” she asked with interest.

  Astral looked shocked. “Don’t ask that. I don’t want to know who’s going to die.”

  Princess.

  “What princess?” Astral immediately asked. She chugged more gin. Somewhere, a princess was dying. Shouldn’t he be in London? Or Windsor? Or maybe Monaco?

  Glees.

  “No more ginger glees.” Keeva leapt to her feet. “He needs a proper meal. I’ve a bag of dog food in the back of the car. It’ll keep him going for a few hours. I’ll bring more in the morning.”

  “Morning?” Astral hadn’t thought about Shucky’s length of stay. How long did hellhounds hang around? Was this princess malingering?

  “And I’ll grab my microchip reader.” Keeva headed for the door.

  “Of course, why didn’t I think of that? The hellhound is microchipped. We’ll simply telephone Death and tell him to come collect his pup.” She knew she was being unhelpful, even sarcastic, but it went well with the gin.

  Keeva shrugged. “All responsible owners microchip their pets, even spectral ones.” She ducked out, leaving Astral to contemplate her shaggy visitor from over the rim of her glass.

  “Maybe there’ll be a reward,” she muttered. Then, “Shucky, there are no princesses here. You’re at the wrong house.”

  Glees.

  Astral sighed and began to assemble two more G&Ts. This time, triples. She didn’t know about Keeva, but she needed every last damned drop. Where was Dulcie when she needed her? Sometimes Keeva could be far too stoic, and right now, Astral needed someone with an eye for existential nonsense.

  As if on command, Dulcie’s “Cooee!” rang out from the front hall. Merryman zoomed through and found a favoured beam to chirp from while his mistress breezed into the kitchen shaking off her raincoat. “It’s practically a hurricane out there.”

  “Where were you?” Astral wailed. “It’s been bedlam around here.” She began to make a third G&T.

  “I’m sorry for being late.” Dulcie thumbed over her shoulder. “And for my chaiwallah, here.” Damián was hard on her heels. “I couldn’t jettison him.”

  “I can smell good gossip at five hundred—oh, my wizarding gonads!” he caught sight of the hellhound sitting primly on the hearth rug. “That thing’s as big as a Humvee.”

  “What in Hecate—” Dulcie stalled mid-step.

  “He followed me home.” Astral waved an introduction. “Dulcie, Damián, meet Black Shuck, or Shucky, as he likes to be called. He’s a hellhound and he’s looking for a dead, or seriously incapacitated, princess.” Introductions done, Astral collapsed in a chair and pointed at the drinks on the tray. “Help yourselves.”

  “Black Shuck,” Dulcie said, reverent. “The ghost dog of Norfolk.”

  “He’s looking pretty solid to me.” Damián eased towards the gin, keeping the table firmly between himself and Shucky.

  “He’s a folklore legend,” Dulcie informed them. “He haunted the Norfolk countryside in the 1500s and ate the souls of the unwise…and apparently a lot of sheep.” She flicked a glance at Damián. “Either way, I don’t think that table’s big enough to save you, you’re bound to be on his menu one way or another.”

  Shucky eat sheeps. Shucky sounded inordinately proud. It dawned on Astral that Dulcie and Damián couldn’t hear him the way she and Keeva could, which was interesting.

  “What’s he doing here? Is he haunting you, Astral?” Damián asked, and snatched a G&T before retreating behind Dulcie.

  “No,” Astral said. “He’s just visiting. He’s going home as soon as Keeva reads his microchip.”

  Damián nodded wisely while Dulcie pushed her glasses up her nose and frowned. “Microchip in a hellhound? I don’t mean to question your rationale, but how many of those have you and Keeva had?” She nodded at the drinks tray.

  “Where is Keeva?” Damián looked around. “I bet he’s eaten her.”

  “She went to get dog food from her car.” Astral handed Dulcie a tall glass that rattled with ice.

  “By Hec,” Dulcie spluttered on her first sip. “I can see why your rationales have gone bent. This is lethal.”

  “Stick around and you’ll be on your second in no time.”

  Damián sampled his drink and smacked his lips in satisfaction. “This is the most human I’ve felt all day. We need gin breaks instead of tea,” he informed Dulcie.

  The kitchen door burst open as Keeva blew in with a howling gale hard on her heels. She carried a huge sack of dog food that she dumped unceremoniously on the floor before kicking the door shut behind her.

  “This should keep him happy for a few hours at least,” she said, wiping her hands dry on her pants and gratefully accepting her reloaded glass. Her hair and shoulders were soaking wet. “It’s piddling down out there.”

  Shucky sniffed the food sack hopefully. Kibbles?

  “Yes, kibble, and it’s measured amounts for you, mister,” Keeva told him, eyeing his bulk.

  “Wait a minute, you can hear him?” Dulcie asked.

  “Yes,” Keeva said. “Though only because I’m a Dogwitch. As for Astral…probably because this whole thing is freaky and somehow connected to her.”

  “How on earth do I measure out food for a hellhound?” Astral flicked a worried glance at the stack of mixing bowls on her top shelf. Keeva responded by filling the plastic washing-up bowl directly from the sack. Shucky’s head immediately dipped into his new feeding trough while Keeva scanned him with her microchip reader.

  “Nope. No microchip.” She glared at the machine. “I hate neglectful owners.”

  Dulcie shook her head. “How weird that Astral can communicate. I hear nothing but an annoying buzz.”

  “Me, too.” Damián had a finger stuck in his earhole. “It’s like water on the ear.”

  “It’s like being back at work with you,” Dulcie corrected. “Why is there a hellhound at Black and Blacker?” she asked Astral.

  “All I can think is that the ninth floor must be a portal,” Astral said. “Black and Blacker is not what it seems.”

  “You don’t say.” Dulcie chugged hard on her gin.

  Astral ignored her. “Once I’d fed Shucky everything edible in the house, I read through the contract again. The really fine print. And things aren’t looking good.”

  Lightning flashed and the house lights flared, then blinked off, plunging them into near-darkness, broken by the glow of the coals in the hearth. Damián squeaked and swallowed his drink in one.

  Astral sighed. “Great, the power’s gone off,” she said, “right at the big denouement.” She felt her way over to the dresser and rummaged around for candles and a box of matches. “Here.” She handed them out.

  They distributed the candles around the room and soon were sitting in a hallow
ed glow around the kitchen table.

  “These are Circle candles,” Keeva noted. The scent of sacred oils spiced the air.

  “Magdalene can sue me,” Astral said. “After we kick her cheating butt.”

  “So, what did the small print say?” Dulcie asked.

  “Magdalene was to deliver something, and in return, she…” This part was hard. “She got to take over as High Priestess of The Plague Tree Coven.”

  “How can Black and Blacker decide who runs the coven?” Keeva said, tone angry. “It’s our coven. Does that mean Grandma Lettice was…?” She petered off but the implication hung in the air. Had the old lady come to harm?

  “Going by the dates on the contract, I’d say this whole thing started while grandma was already ill,” Astral said carefully. “I don’t think there were any extraneous circumstances.” There came a flush of relief from around the table.

  “I still don’t understand,” Dulcie said. “Keeva’s right, it’s the members who decide these things. This is our coven.”

  “Not exactly. Or rather, not for long.” Astral prepared herself for the really hard part. “If Magdalene defaults, Black and Blacker takes over The Plague Tree Coven.”

  This was met with silence.

  “Say again?” Damián asked.

  “You’re not even in the coven,” Keeva said with a snort.

  “I know, but everyone has a dream,” he answered hotly. “Allow me to dream.”

  “Stop dreaming and do your exams. You’ll be a shoo-in.” Dulcie patted his hand absently, though she looked a million miles away. “But how can they take over our coven? A coven is an organic thing. It’s the local witching community that comes together to make up a coven. Hardly fodder for a hostile takeover.”

  “I’ll not be witching for the likes of them. I’ll leave the coven first,” Keeva stated, and thumped her empty glass on the table. “I’m gonna show Black and Blacker exactly where to stick it and they can take their temperature at the same time.”

  “The Plague Tree Coven is more than a magic circle,” Astral pointed out. “It’s centuries old. We’ve stocks and shares, a pension fund. We’ve a property portfolio. As has every old coven in the land. Our spell vault is legendary. We’re magically very powerful. Well worth sucking dry, and well worth a corporate takeover…from another magical dimension.”