Borage

by Gill McKnight

  “Not my business to look at Magdalene’s private things.”

  “Time’s running out, Gina. At least inform yourself before your friends and neighbours inadvertently make a life-changing mistake.” She left and closed the door behind her with a haughty tinkle. Why were people so complacent? Didn’t they understand the peril they were in?

  “You!” The call came from behind. “Stop right there.”

  Holy Hecate, I’m about to be accosted in the street! Borage was right. Astral turned. There was no mob on the pavement. Rather, a few yards away, an irate Erigone imperiously beckoned from the doorway of her jewellery shop.

  Astral dithered but only for a split second. She’d never felt comfortable in Erigone’s presence, not since schooldays when Erigone grew breasts before everyone else and then further matured into a class A bitch. However, this was the market square and a very public place and Astral was damned if she’d be called to heel like some puppy. With as much bravado as she could muster, she strolled nonchalantly over with what she hoped was a cool smile on her face.

  “And good morning to you, Erigone.”

  Wordlessly, Erigone swept into The Shrine, apparently expecting Astral to follow. She did, if only to avoid more scrutiny outside.

  The marble interior was muted and cool, its glass shop counters resting on rough-hewn rock carved from the local chalklands. The décor came across as minimalist yet classic, all crisp, clean lines. The Shrine was appropriately named because it looked like a Grecian temple and hinted at Erigone’s paternal lineage. Strategic lighting reflected off hundreds of multifaceted diamonds. Some large, some small, some mounted in jewellery, others sold loose. All nestled on black velvet beds under plate glass.

  “Don’t play that with me.” Erigone went on the offensive. “I can tell by your hair turban you’re shaking in your cheap shoes.” She flicked Astral a hard look. Her electric blue gaze blazed a thousand volts of outrage. “You sneaky little bitch. If you think by discrediting my mother, you’ll ruin my business, you can think again.”

  Astral found a hidden reservoir of courage and outrage. “Now, just a minute, I think you’ll find it’s Magdalene who has bankrupted—never mind discredited—us all.”

  A movement by the registrar from a bust of what Astral presumed to be a Grecian goddess attracted her attention. Its features were made in the likeness of Erigone, and a thick, lustrous silver coil necklace draped around the bust’s décolletage caught the light with a subtle shimmer. It moved. She was sure of it. She stared, mistrusting her own eyes, but the necklace slowly squirmed against the cool marble, repositioning the drape of its silvery coils.

  As if sensing her stare, a slim, diamond-pointed head reared from the bust and it hissed delicately but dangerously, straight at her. Astral shivered at Sleekit, Erigone’s silver snake familiar. Sleekit always made her skin crawl. She could make herself threadlike and gleaming, and squeeze into the tightest spaces. Alternatively, she could bloat to the size of a boa, a dull, leaden rope of pure muscle. In either form, she was capable of inflicting great damage. Her presence elevated Astral’s stress levels. She needed to get out of The Shrine and find Dulcie.

  “You attacked her. It was all over the news.” Erigone pointed at a copy of last night’s The Witching Times sitting on the countertop.

  “Your mother tried to hex me and the property reacted,” Astral answered stiffly. “It chose chickens to defend itself. She’s lucky a rafter didn’t land on her head.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  She snorted. “No. Why would I want to hurt Magdalene? We already know what she’s been up to.”

  “You attempted a power snatch and now everyone sees the Projectors for the power-hungry harpies they are.”

  Astral laughed mirthlessly. “You have no idea what she’s done, have you?” She shook her head. This was pointless unless Erigone read the contract. “The proof of her misuse of the coven pension fund was handed out last night, and that’s only the half of it. Your mother’s the one who’s so power-hungry, she sold us out.”

  “Liar. You’ve never forgiven her for taking over the coven. You expected to be High Priestess when your grandmother died, except you’re such a useless witch that no one would vote for you. And why is that exactly?”

  What an odd question, about her lack of powers. Astral was unsure how to respond, so she blustered. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve never wanted to be High Priestess, and for someone who’s not once shown any interest in the coven, you’re suddenly very opinionated.”

  “Black and Blacker mishandled their contractual obligations and Mother’s going to sue them.” Erigone hit back. “The Curdle’s aren’t going to roll over on this.”

  “Good luck to her,” she shot back, sarcastic. “In a few days, Hellbent Incorporated will be your mother’s new boss. Let’s see her sue then.” She turned to go.

  “This pension crap is all a ploy,” Erigone said. “We know you’re cosying up to Abby Black to try and steal the coven away.”

  The accusation hit her in a way she didn’t expect. What did Erigone or Magdalene know about her dealings with Abby Black?

  “I went to Black and Blacker to look for a fund-stealing critter. Your mother sent me there herself. I found out instead that Magdalene was the critter.”

  Erigone glared at her and from the counter, so did Sleekit. “That makes no sense. Why did she send you there at all?”

  Astral glared back, trying to maintain some semblance of control. Erigone had picked up the only flaw in Magdalene’s logic. “Perhaps that’s a question you should ask her.” Indeed, the question had bothered her for a while. Why send her to Black and Blacker when Magdalene could have easily blamed Old Mother Worriwort or some other lackey for mishandling the finances? It wasn’t even the High Priestess’s job to monitor finances. That was under the Grand Dames’ remit.

  “You Projectors think you run everything around here and if you can’t have it, you’ll destroy it.”

  “I’m tired of arguing. Three days, Erigone. Then we’ll see what’s what.” She walked out into a soft winter sunlight that failed to warm her after the chilled confines of Erigone’s shop. She headed across the square to Whoops a Daisy, seeking respite. Dulcie would make them both a nice cup of tea and Astral would tell her all about Erigone and Gina Biscotti, and how rude and stupid everyone was. Doubtless, Dulcie would have stories of her own, so they could share their woebegones.

  But Whoops a Daisy was shut. The “Closed” sign dangled behind the glass door. It was not like Dulcie to miss work. Was she ill? Had something awful happened? Surely, she would call her if there was a problem.

  Despite her agitation, the need for restorative tea did not diminish. Rather, Astral needed a sit-down-and-ponder more than ever. She turned on her heel towards The Big Bus. She would call Dulcie from there and find out what was going on.

  “A pot of Assam with a lemon wedge, please, and some hobnobs.” After she gave her order, she looked for a spot by the window. The Big Bus was chock-full of Saturday shoppers. Astral decided to move to the top floor, which was a little less busy. She found a quiet table but before she could settle, she saw a man slumped in the corner, an untouched coffee cup sitting before him and The Witching Times masking his face. Luckily, the headlines had moved on from Golem’s travesties, so Astral didn’t feel too uneasy staring at the front page. What drew her attention were the chunky gold rings on each pinkie finger of the hands gripping the paper.

  “Fergal?” she said, shocked.

  The newspaper dropped and she was staring into the wretched countenance of Fergal Mor.

  “Astral?” He sounded delighted. A crooked smile creased his rubicund face. “Haven’t I been lookin’ fer ye all over, sweetheart. For such a piddlin’ wee place, sure yer hard to find.” His words were bright and breezy, but dark desperation marred his stare.

  Astral grabbed her tray and slid into his booth to sit opposite him. “What on earth are you doing here?” Had Abby Black the temerit
y to send a messenger? And what a coward, not showing up herself.

  “I’m on the lam from Black and Blacker,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. Close up, his words were laced with whiskey. A hip flask peeked out from his inner pocket. No wonder his coffee went untouched. “And the evil harpy runnin’ it. She’s got it in fer me, Astral. She’ll kill me before another week’s out.”

  Last week, Astral would have put this outburst down to Fergal’s copious capacity for self-pity and drink. But now that she knew Abby Black was Death, she listened with new ears.

  “What do you mean?” Did he know the poignancy of his own words?

  “Abaddon,” Fergal cried, “She’s Abaddon. Angel of the Abyss. Death the Despoiler. Keeper of the Book of the Dead. She who perishes all that was, all that is, and all that will be.”

  “Okay, then.” Apparently, he did know.

  His head sank onto the table. “She’s pissed at me, Astral. Life’s been nothing but a shitty shovel since you left.” He blubbered into his tweed sleeves.

  “It was only two days ago.” This could still be a trap. Astral had not had a very trust-inspiring morning and could easily have blubbered right along with him.

  “Feels like two years.” He let loose with a long, wet sigh.

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  His answer was to tap The Witching Times with a moist finger.

  “Ah.” Not good. Who else could find her? Not that there hadn’t been an outlandish stream of visitors already. Hellhounds, an evil High Priestess, and Death herself. What did it matter that the Compliance team lead should show up wailing?

  “Fergal,” she said gently, “I’m not going back. My time with Black and Blacker is over.”

  “Urgh.” He clawed for her hands and hung on like a drowning man. “Don’t leave me, Astral,” he begged. “You’re the only one with a noggin of wit, and Abby knows it. She needs help with them contracts. People are always trying to slip out of their deals with the Devil.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you, Fergal. Abby has already asked, and I said no.” She did, however, enjoy a little bit of satisfaction that Abby needed her. Needed her help, she quickly self-corrected.

  “I’m a goner,” he wailed. He extracted a huge linen handkerchief from his pocket to wipe at his watery eyes. “Sanctuary.” His cry caught her off guard.

  “How do you mean?”

  He slapped the newspaper. “You’re a Fireside witch, and according to this, you’ve set up a sanctuary. Fireside witches can’t refuse those in need. Everyone knows that.”

  “Well, actually we—”

  “Please, Astral. I’ll be buried in me brogues before another day’s out if ye don’t help yer old pal. Sanctuary,” he cried again, attracting attention from other tables.

  “Shush.” Old pals? She’d known him for less than a week. “I haven’t set up a sanctuary. I’m a founding member of a subsidiary to The Plague Tree Coven. The newspaper got it wrong.”

  “I want to join.”

  “Fergal, you can’t. You’re not a witch.”

  “I’m a magical being. It doesn’t all have to be witches,” he stated firmly.

  He was right. Rare as it was, otherworldly beings could join a coven, though usually for the short term, like if there was a magical quest or something along those lines that needed doing. That was not the situation here and Astral wondered how to break it to him. “Wait. What do you mean, you’re a magical being?”

  “I’m a leprechaun.”

  Astral blinked. It took her a moment to realise she hadn’t spoken out loud. “What?” How had she missed that?

  “Leprechaun. Look.” He delved in his jacket pocket and poured a fistful of gold coins onto the table. He reached in again and brought out another handful, followed by another and another. His pockets were bottomless. The clatter of coins brought new attention from surrounding tables. “I’m rollin’ in it. Money here, there, everywhere. It’s me charm.”

  “Stop that.” Astral pushed the coins back at him. “I can’t believe you were the critter.” It explained a lot. A lust for wealth, the money bags under his desk, his love of ugly gold jewellery.

  “We’re all critters,” he said, “You’re a critter, too. You’re a witch, after all. Abby told us a wee witch was coming and we had to be nice and keep you busy.”

  Astral stared at him, stunned. Abby had known she was coming? Magdalene had well and truly set her up, but why? This plot grew more tentacles by the minute.

  “Save me, Astral. Ye gotta save me. Please.”

  “How did you get here?” she asked, expecting rainbows, or hopping out of a crock of gold.

  “Taxi.”

  Well, he wasn’t going anywhere. She reached for her bag. Time to call Dulcie—the reason she came to the café in the first place.

  “Damn.” She dug through the contents. No phone. She’d left it at home. Hecate only knew who had been trying to contact her. She thought about Whoops a Daisy closed on a Saturday morning. There’d been trouble, and she’d been out of reach. She gathered her shopping bags and stood, her tea forgotten.

  “Come with me,” she told Fergal. It was paramount she find Dulcie. Maybe she should swing past her house. “Hurry.” She hauled him up by the arm. “Something’s not right.”

  As she stumbled down the staircase, the thought occurred, if Abby had known all along she was a witch, then the Cuckoo spell had never worked on her. Or the mirror spell.

  This was all extremely confounding. Then again, was anything right these days? She hurried out of the Big Bus, Fergal at her heels.

  *

  Fergal sat quietly in the car as instructed while Astral ran to Dulcie’s door. Her knock went unanswered and a quick peek through the front and back windows confirmed no one was home.

  “Are ye worried fer yer wee pal?” he asked when she pulled away from the kerb and headed east.

  “Sort of,” Astral admitted. “It’s not like her to drop off the radar. Then again, she might be ringing me off the hook, for all I know,” she said fretfully, and gunned her car down the country roads towards the Projector farm.

  “Bejesus, but it’s a pretty place ye have here,” Fergal said as she parked outside the barn.

  “Inherited. Been in the family for yonks. Here.” She handed him a sack of groceries and grabbed her shopping basket. “Come around to the kitchen door. Oh, I almost forgot. Welcome to the Projector home, joy be with our kith and kin. Blessed be.”

  “Thank ye. Yer a wee darlin’.”

  Inside, she placed a full kettle on the stovetop and headed for the dresser, where her phone was charging.

  “Oh, bugger.” Her screen was full of missed calls. Each one from Dulcie was echoed a minute later by a call from Damián. They’d been calling her in tandem. She speed-dialled Dulcie at once, indicating for Fergal to sit. “Make yourself at home.”

  Home for Fergal meant immediately orientating towards the drinks cupboard, and whether led by his nose or some special leprechaun magic, she was unsure. She did know that the whiskey bottle he’d selected was her best. Her scowl dropped away when Damián picked up her call.

  “Oh,” she said, confused. “I thought I’d dialled Dulcie.”

  “You did. This is her phone. I’m holding it for her. We’ve been trying to get you for ages. Where have you been?” He sounded off. Very off.

  “Out. What’s going on?”

  “Oh, Astral.” She recognised the problem with his voice, he’d been crying. “We’re at Keeva’s surgery. Merryman’s dead.”

  *

  Abby tapped her fingernails irritably on Fergal’s desk. He was not there to hear her usually ominous habit when he should have been. He was not shaking in his shiny little brogues, either. Instead, he’d clearly decided on yet another leisurely start to the day. It didn’t matter that it was Saturday morning. Fergal Mor was not allowed a weekend of leisure, and the piece of tat in her hand trying to pass itself off as a business document was the re
ason why.

  He had failed to deliver even one piece of competent work since he took over as Compliance lead. He was an absolute disgrace. She suspected his drinking buddies had covered for him when he fronted Dividends, and riding high on the deceit, he’d been stupid enough to accept a promotion for a job he had no idea how to do.

  In the kitchen, the kettle burbled to a boil, accompanied by Ping’s off-key singing. Ping didn’t mind coming in on a Saturday, thus making her punishment for losing Black Shuck ineffective. Abby would have to think of an alternative, dastardly comeuppance, a task that would be the only light relief of her whole damned week.

  She sank into Fergal’s chair and stared dejectedly at the desk opposite, contemplating why her mood had soured. Ms Projector—Astral—had left it spic and span. Another clue missed. Who tidied their desktop to within an inch of its life on an innocent workday? It was obvious she had been planning to bolt.

  Astral Eugenie Clementine Projector. What a name. What a conundrum.

  Abby loved conundrums. People seldom puzzled her. They were shallow, greedy, and often prepared to sell the souls of their grandmothers for any old worldly trash. Power, wealth, fame. They gorged on materialism, assuming that’s what fuelled life, and in doing so, starved their souls literally to death.

  Humanity was stupid. It fell for every trap she set. No one eluded Death’s snare—except maybe for Miss Shine— and Astral Eugenie Clementine Projector was responsible for that as well, making her a very mysterious witch.

  Abby knew Astral held a secret. She could smell it. Yes, the charming pageant of clumsy magic, misplaced bravado, and sincere intentions was entertaining—appealing, even— but in no way did it distract Abby from her goal—the recovery of Princess Molotova.

  She bit back a wry smile. Witches were a wily, duplicitous lot at best, and with the creation of this new coven, there would be intense infighting, because witches fought dirty.

  A phone rang. Not unusual for an empty office, even on a Saturday morning. This was a mobile phone, however.