Magic and the Shinigami Detective

by Honor Raconteur

  Settling inside on the opposite bench, I asked the question plaguing my mind. “I noticed several pages on your desk in a language that I didn’t recognize. Your native tongue, I take it?”

  “Yes, English.” Edwards gave me a somewhat rueful smile as she sat back in the seat, crossing her legs comfortably. “I’m still learning your language. It’s faster to take notes in English.”

  Learning mine? But she spoke it fluently—as soon as the thought formed, I stopped it dead and barely refrained from smacking myself. Idiot. Of course, the language hexes only allowed verbal translation, it didn’t carry over to the written word. “I imagine it’s more difficult to learn Velars when you can’t hear the pronunciation of the word.”

  “Radically so. I learned other languages on Earth, so I know how to learn another. It’s just that here, when people speak to me, it all sounds like English.” She gave a glum groan. “It’s an ‘all Greek to me’ situation. I have to get people to speak the word a syllable at a time so that I can recognize the spoken word with its written counterpart. I’m making progress, but it’s slow.”

  I went over our interactions for the past three days and realized that she had never looked at a written report, never even glanced at a menu, then felt like smacking myself again. Of course she couldn’t, it would be useless to her and place her in a potentially embarrassing situation. All of the facts were right there, why hadn’t I observed properly?

  It was pathetically easy to observe what people do. But a truly observational person saw what they don’t do. I normally prided myself on my skills but they had utterly failed me where this woman was concerned. Had I been blinded by her reputation? Her obvious nonconformity to society’s rules?

  “You have a very interesting expression on your face, Doctor,” Edwards stated, leaning slightly forward, head canted in interest. “Does my illiteracy bother you?”

  “No,” I assured her, a tad too hastily, “that’s understandable. I’m upset with myself for not seeing the situation properly. I should have realized.”

  “You should have realized,” she repeated neutrally, eyes narrowing slightly as they studied my face. “Why should you have realized? I go through considerable effort to not let on to that weakness.”

  Apparently I’d phrased myself poorly, as she appeared irritated at this. “I pride myself on being observant, Detective. On seeing what is below the surface. I have utterly failed to do that with you at least twice and my pride is smarting.”

  The gathering storm on her face cleared, her normal good humor appearing. “Is that what this is? Wounded pride? In your defense, you’ve been rather distracted by this case.”

  I snorted and turned away, looking out the window, as I didn’t care for excuses.

  “That did not appease you.” She sounded amused by this but fortunately, let the subject drop. “Alright, let’s talk about something else, then. I had a thought. You’re sure that a rogue magician would be necessary to do all of this?”

  “Quite certain of it, why?”

  “Any way for us to track him down? Narrow down the suspects to possible rogue magicians? We’re flying blind right now.”

  “The city hardly has a handy list of rogue magicians, Detective,” I denied and then thought better of the words immediately. More slowly I added, “Although it might be possible to create one.”

  Her interest sharpened, so that she braced her hands on her knees and leaned a little toward me. “How so?”

  “You are aware that every magician, no matter their level, is required to have a license issued by the city? Very good. I propose we get a list of the student body from the university and cross reference it with the Magic Licensing Department.”

  Head canting to the side, she asked, “It can’t be that simple, can it?”

  “The idea has flaws,” I admitted frankly. “Not every student that enters University graduates, so naturally they won’t have a license. There’s likely a few in there that will have just neglected to renew their license. But at least some could be rogues.”

  “Even if they’re not our rogue, it’s still not a bad idea to hunt these guys down. And it does give us a starting point, which we desperately need.” She nodded firmly. “Let’s do it. After our visit, perhaps we can go request a copy from both the Registrar’s Department and the Magic Licensing Department.”

  “We might as well do it today; likely it will take them time to assemble a list for us.” In fact, it might take a few weeks before we were given those lists.

  Grimacing, she agreed, “It’s not something we’ll get immediately. But still, a very good thought. Now, this colleague of yours. What’s his name?”

  “Newell. John Newell. He’s a leading expert in Parallel Energies.” From the blank look on her face, I’d better explain that last part. “There are two main sources of energy in this world, highly documented and in constant use: magic and electricity. We’re still harnessing the full potential for electricity, in my opinion, but still, it’s in common use. There are other sources of energy, however, that are not as widely used but still in existence. Paranormal energy, for instance. Newell specializes in these.”

  “Meaning he’s an examiner like you are, specifically for these energies?”

  “That’s part of his job, yes. He also consults in their proper use, assists with inventions, and so on. His main occupation is as a professor. He teaches at the Kingston University.” Feeling like I should warn her, I added, “Newell is a bit odd. Eccentric, abrupt, often absentminded, although he occasionally surprises me with a display of good manners.”

  Edwards had a knowing look about her, as if she understood exactly what I had not said. “So, try not to take offense when he does something socially awkward?”

  “Yes, just so. His house is more a Chester’s Closet than anything.”

  Her expression went perfectly blank. “I’m sorry?”

  Not a phrase she knew? Apparently not. “I mean to say that his house is cluttered to the rafters. I fully expect to open the door one day and be swamped with an avalanche of things.”

  “Ah, like a hoarder’s house,” she responded, confusion clearing. “Don’t worry, I’m braced.”

  Hopefully that would be enough warning. I’d been colleagues with Newell for the better part of a decade, considered us friends of sorts, and even I couldn’t stand to be around him for more than twelve hours at a stretch. The man was brilliant but the sort that should never, ever get married. He’d drive his wife to justifiable homicide within a week.

  We arrived at 232 Homer Lane without fanfare. I paid the cabbie as we got out, then went to the door and pushed it open without bothering to knock. Newell never locked his doors, and he never answered a knock, so I’d learned to just waltz in.

  “Not the type to lock his doors?” Edwards asked as she followed me inside, shutting the door behind her. “Ah.”

  I cast an amused glance over my shoulder, a quick one, as anything longer would put life and limb in danger. Newell was not known for his organizational skills and he had hoarding tendencies that would put a dragon to shame. Everything from an abandoned snack, half-eaten and growing mold to a rather large treaty on power configurations lay in the hallway, leaving barely enough room to maneuver through. I had to suck in my gut and slip sideways several times.

  This was beyond ridiculous. Whoever burned the house down would be doing the man a favor, I swear it. “Newell!”

  What sounded like a clink of metal and pipes whistling came from some back corner of the house. That sounded promising. I knew he’d be home at this time of the day—he was notoriously predictable in his patterns—but I didn’t relish searching every room until I found him. I might not make it out alive. “NEWELL!”

  “Back lab!” his voice floated out. He didn’t sound cranky. That was promising.

  A whiff of something putrid assaulted us as we went past a half-opened door, but fortunately most of the odor came from dust, which my nose could ignore. I did not go looking
for whatever caused that putrid waft. I did not want to know.

  Edwards gagged behind me, putting a hand over her nose. I’d forgotten her nose was more sensitive than mine. I reached into a pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and whispered a quick spell on it before passing it over.

  She promptly put it to her nose and breathed easier. “Citrus. Good choice. Thank you, Davenforth.”

  “My pleasure.” I went for the back lab, relieved to find the door wide open and all of the windows as well, helping to keep the slightly sulfuric smell from gagging levels. Newell sat at his work bench, goggles pushed up to rest on the top of his crown, leather gauntlets covering from fingers to past his elbows, working in nothing but shirtsleeves, pants and a leather apron. He had soot and something else darkening his red fur, so that he looked more like a raccoon than a werefox. I took a glance at his setup, found him to be in the process of welding something, although from this angle I could hardly determine what.

  “Newell,” I greeted and wisely did not offer a hand. “I’ve come to pick your brain.”

  “Do so, it’s withering from lack of challenges,” he encouraged. His nose twitched toward Edwards, catching and analyzing her scent, no doubt. “But who’s this?”

  “Detective Jamie Edwards, this is Doctor John Newell. Newell, this is my colleague and the one assigned to this case with me.”

  Newell got the feel of Edwards very quickly as he didn’t greet her as a woman, but as a working detective. He doffed one gauntlet and extended a paw, which Edwards took in a firm grip. “Detective, a pleasure, I’m sure. Sit, sit.”

  For once the bench had open seating, and I took prompt advantage of it.

  “Well, now, this is a surprise, seeing you working with someone.” Newell had a grin on his face that suggested at being lascivious. I didn’t know what the man was thinking and I didn’t care to find out.

  I knew a sure-fire way of stopping this line of inquiry. “I have brought you a puzzle. A group of thieves, unknown in number and expertise, attacked our Evidence Locker three days ago. In doing so, they shredded through the magical defenses with a powerful attack that had no trace of magic in it.”

  Newell’s ears went back for a moment, then twitched forward again. “Do tell. You took readings?”

  “Naturally.” I pulled them out of my satchel and handed them over. “There were no traces of hexes, insignias, or any sort of device either. I have a recording of the area if you wish to see the damage they left behind.”

  “Perhaps,” Newell agreed absently, his eyes poring over the numbers. Flicking a page over, his nose twitched thoughtfully. “These are just raw numbers of power, you say? Absolutely no trace of magic?”

  “As you see.”

  “Hmm.” Newell read through the next two pages before setting it aside, blindly staring dead ahead of him, through the open windows. I knew that look on his face well. Newell found it impossible to answer a question directly, instead preferring to explain via story if it somehow connected with a previous experience. I had a feeling this case did. “I’m reminded of a certain instance in my youth, one of the first cases I took on as a consultant. It happened at a church, actually, near an old graveyard that still saw some burials from the local families in the area.

  “The church itself contacted me as they had been regularly attacked for nearly a week. The wards protecting it kept being shredded apart, as if a giant hand had passed through a spider’s web. They could not discern that any damage had been done to the building, the graves, or anything in the area. No thefts were reported. If not for the magical wards being so brutally ripped apart, no one would think anything amiss. Magical experts claimed adamantly that there was no sign of any magic attack, hence why they grew desperate enough to call me in.

  “I went and recorded my own information, went back and did some experiments, and couldn’t think of a single power source that could explain the phenomena. The church was reluctant to pay for yet another set of wards to be set up—with good reason, they’re not precisely cheap. I wheedled them into putting up a minor, small one and then stayed the night, all of my tools set to record anything and everything I could think of. Somewhere around two in the morning, the most extraordinary thing happened.” Newell finally turned his head and grinned at us, putting a claw alongside his nose. “I had a visitor.

  “You see, the church’s graveyard was old enough to gather a certain amount of power, in the supernatural side of things. They had, in fact, a Black Dog in residence.”

  I drew in a sharp breath, suddenly sure where this tale headed.

  Newell gave me a nod. “I thought you’d understand when I said that, but I can see your partner is still a bit lost. I’ll continue for her sake. Do you know what a Black Dog is, Detective Edwards?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “It’s a specter from certain belief systems, a large black dog about the size of a small pony. They’re known for guarding the dead, specifically for being bound to one family or even one individual. Immensely powerful in their own right, they’re not something most would choose to cross. They’re highly territorial. For the most part, this one was content to stay in the graveyard, but something recently had drawn him into the building. I went searching for the cause and found that someone had removed a gravestone, bringing it inside, copying the information over. The stone was so old it was basically illegible. They were attempting to make a new stone to replace it with, in between their other duties. The dog kept coming in nightly to check on the stone, wanting it returned.

  “Once I discovered it and reported my findings, all haste was made to complete the project and put the new stone in place. The dog was never seen in the church again, to my knowledge,” he finished triumphantly, as well he should.

  Edwards tapped a fingertip against the table, her head ever so slightly cocked. “You mean to tell me that spirit energy—is that the right term?”

  “Close enough. We normally call it spectral energy.”

  “Spectral energy, then, is more powerful than magic?”

  “Not precisely. It’s more accurate to say that its wavelength is—forgive me.” Newell groaned, rubbing at an ear. “Wavelength is not a term you would know.”

  “Actually, I do,” Edwards corrected with a quirk of the mouth. “Please continue.”

  Somewhat hesitantly, Newell nodded and gamely continued. “Very well, then. The wavelength that spectral energy occupies is radically different than magical frequencies. They create a sharp dissonance with each other when they collide, and if one force is pressed hard enough against the other, magical constructs break. Even wards, meant to hold against all sorts of pressure, cannot withstand a focused, spectral energy.”

  “Like a Black Dog.” Edwards hummed some strange ditty, clearly thinking hard. “You see a similar pattern here, with our case, and I can tell from Doctor Davenforth’s expression that he agrees with you. But gentlemen, I have to ask you this: how do you harness anything of the supernatural realm and aim it at a specific building?”

  “That is an excellent question,” Newell admitted. “I have no answer for you. This case was unique, the only time I saw such an occurrence, which is why it stuck in my memory.”

  While that did tease my mind, I had a different worry. “Newell, is there really no means of guarding against such an attack?”

  “Not if something of equal strength is used against it. Or stronger, naturally. A single specter with the strength of a Black Dog, for instance, can topple the wards to any single building. It would not work against something larger, say the wards of a compound or particularly large building, such as the King’s Clock. But an evidence locker?” Newell spread his paws in a helpless shrug. “No matter how carefully crafted, the wards won’t hold up.”

  The way he said ‘compound’ sparked an idea in my head. “What if the wards were linked to each other, each building acting as a cornerstone to an overall ward?”

  Newell blinked, paused, mouth opening and then slowly cl
osing again. He turned long enough to snatch up a pencil, turned my report over, and started scribbling madly. I popped up from my seat to stand at his shoulder, watching as he wrote out diagrams and equations, checking his work as he wrote.

  I solved the last equation in my head before he even wrote it down and said, “Yes!” in unison with him. We grinned at each other like co-conspirators and I offered him a hand. “Excellent work as always, old fellow.”

  Newell took it and grinned at me. “Thank you. I’ll continue to work on the question of how this was managed. I’m quite intrigued by the idea. Not to mention disturbed by it.”

  “Please do,” I requested. “We really can’t afford a repeat of this. Send me your usual bill, I’ll see it paid.”

  Edwards stood, sensing we were done, but lingered with her hand lightly grazing the tabletop. “Doctor Newell, one last question, if you would.”

  “Please, Detective, ask away.”

  “Is this situation repeatable? I mean, if they managed to pull a specter once in order to use it as a weapon, then do you think they can successfully do it again?”

  Newell sobered and gave a grim shrug. “I’m sorry to say yes, I think they can. However they managed it, it was obviously successful. At this moment I cannot imagine anything that would stop them from using the same tactic again. Why? Do you think they have another target in mind?”

  Edwards gave him a grim twitch of the mouth, something that might have been an attempted smile that fell very flat. “I think, sir, that thieves always have another target in mind.”

  Ice went through my veins as I realized the implications of what she meant by that. Sod it all, she was right. They likely did have another target in mind. But how did we safeguard an entire city when we weren’t even sure how they managed this spectacular attack in the first place?