Widecombe-in-the-moor was an Old Village such as Crediton. It had been there in some form or other for millennia.
So had the Magical community. First, we’d been Pagans, worshipping the wild gods of old. Then we’d been Christians of various denominations as time progressed.
Now, though, there was only one Merlin family in Widecombe-in-the-moor, the rest of the population being former retainers of Merlins and Trusted Retainers. Capitals. Always capitals.
A family, and an ancient being.
'Tell me again, what don't you do?'
'I don't look him in the eye for more than three heartbeats. Nor shake his hand for more than five.'
I could tell Dawn was irked at having to repeat herself for what must have been the fifth time, but we were going to be calling upon a very special Magician, indeed.
'And if he offers you chocolate cake?'
'Say no, ask for Battenberg, and tell him Victoria Sponge is my favourite when he says he doesn't have any Battenberg.'
'And if he offers you a ride on his battle alpaca?'
'Oh, my God! I say no. Why can't I ride his alpaca?' Her bottom lip trembled at the unfairness of it all. Cute. But rules were rules.
'Because you're not a Jaguar Warrior of the Five Hearts, and Mictlantecuhtli is an utterly evil bastard. All alpacas are.'
'Fine,' she muttered as we turned off the road and headed down a private driveway just before the village. 'What are all these stones?'
'The petrified souls of his defeated enemies.' I kept my tone as level as possible so she wouldn't hear the fear in my voice.
'The fucking what now?' She gasped, staring at each stone as we passed it.
'Petrified. Defeated. Enemies.'
We arrived at our destination before she could say anything else. It was picture perfect. Flowers in baskets. Cob walls. Stone walls. Thatched roof. Petrified enemies galore.
Our host was waiting, striding over to open my door before I'd even turned off the engine.
'Jane! How delightful to see you again!' He beamed at me, holding the door as I climbed out.
'Philip, learned to drive yet?'
'Good gracious, no. I've got Mictlantecuhtli for that.'
Seeing that I was out of the car, he shut the door and raced around to help Dawn out.
'Marvellous to see you, too, errr, Diane.'
'Hello, Mr Reeve.' Thankfully she didn't correct him.
'Philip please. Come in, come in.'
Before we knew it, we were sat in a traditional Devon longhouse, Arga belting out heat as a traditional kettle screeched that it was hot.
'Chocolate cake, Davina?' The cake looked simply divine. A coronary in the waiting. A diabetic's demise.
'No thank you, not really my thing,' said Dawn, both hands outstretched for a split second before she snatched them away. Catching her eye, I tapped the side of my mouth, signalling she needed to wipe the drool from her chin. It was a truly Magical cake. Even I found myself salivating. ‘How about some Battenberg?'
She couldn't have sounded less genuine if she tried. He stood, holding the plate of chocolate cake out to her. The chocolate cake still called. I dabbed my napkin against my chin, wiping away my own drool.
He was breaking every rule in the book, and he knew it, but his was an Ancient Spirit, he was an Old One. God knows how old.
Most Magicians only lived as long as other humans. We were special only in our abilities. Not even Merlins lived that much longer. Philip, though, he was most certainly special.
'Foul stuff. Don't have any. Victoria sponge?' The plate was still there. The air full of chocolatey goodness. God he was evil.
'My favourite. That would be lovely,' Dawn said in a monotone.
'You've trained Debbie well, Jane.' And like that, the cake was gone, and he was placing a slice of sponge before her.
'Thank you, and I'll have the sponge, too.'
We waited whilst he made tea and played at being mother.
'So, other than polite conversation and cake, why else are you here?' His piercing blue eyes held my nondescript brown ones as he sipped at his tea.
'I wanted to know how the Hound was.' He broke eye contact before I did, spluttering on his tea.
'The Hound? Why on earth do you want to know about the Bound Hound?' His cup rattled as he placed it on the saucer.
'Interested parties have told me there are other interested parties.' Words held power, too, especially in the presence of someone as him. A slip of the tongue would see me Bound as surely as if I'd eaten the cake. 'Parties that want to see it Unbound.'
'Well, that's not something I'll stand for.' I could have sworn the room darkened. I glanced over at Dawn. Eyes wide, mouth open, sponge held before it she was as still as stone. 'Don't worry about her, I'll release her in a moment.'
An icy chill washed over me. He'd frozen Dawn with his Will. No Incantation, no Activation. Raw, unadulterated Power
'Have a drink, dear. You look awfully pale. And then tell me who would do such a foolish thing.'
I did as he suggested. My mouth was drier than the Sahara at that moment, and I had to swallow twice to get the tea down. I was proud that my teacup didn't rattle on its saucer.
'I've been informed that a Merlin might have a conflict of interest. I've been tasked to identify who they are and stop them from achieving their goal.'
'Well, how about we finish our tea and wander on up to the Tor?' As he spoke Dawn suddenly gasped, dropping her cup to shatter on the floor.
'What…what the bloody hell happened then?' She said.
'Language dear,' replied Reeve, tone cold, 'there's a time and place for calling upon such things. Shall we?'
The drive to Hound Tor was short and silent. Tears slid down Dawn's cheeks as she sat next to me in the passenger seat. Reeve was also silent behind us. I knew that tonight was going to be full of recriminations, shouting, and tears. Pulling off into the car park facing the world-famous tour I switched off the engine.
'Seems quiet enough,' I said. More to fill the silence than anything else.
'Pah, let's talk to the Watcher.'
The Watcher in question was the owner of The Hound of the Basketmeals, a food-trailer that was permanently in the car park. Since all they had to do, day in, day out, was watch the Tor, it made the perfect cover.
'Bill, good to see you,' said Reeve, shaking hands with a large, incredibly hirsute man with a mullet that any hillbilly would be proud of. I'd not been to Hound Tor before, not my remit, and most members of the Magical community tend to stay away from such a place, so I was surprised to see that a Werewolf was a Watcher.
‘This is my friend Jane, and her assistant Drew.' finished Reeve, beckoning us forward.
'Nice to meet you.' Bill's teeth were bared in what might charitably have been considered a smile. He stuck his hand out for a shake. His grip was firm, and the hairs on his palm tickled. I tried to pull back, but he kept hold, leaning forward to sniff my hand. 'Shapeshifter.'
'Yes, so bloody what?' I said as I yanked my hand free. Decorum be damned, sniffing someone was bang out of order.
'So, nothing. Just commenting is all, didn't mean anything by it.' His grin was what I could only describe as predatory. Werewolves were like that, never fully human. Never fully wolf. Always ready to bite the hand that fed them. Still, they made good watchdogs.
'Back to business, please, Bill. Anything out of the normal?'
'Nothing, my lord. Haven't even seen a sniff of trouble for a couple of weeks,' Bill growled.
'Is that normal?' I asked.
'Come to think of it, no. Not for the season. Gets kind of quiet in the winter as it tends to scare off the pansies, but with the sun out like this, I'd expect to have to deal with at least a couple of wannabes a week, at least.'
That wasn't what I wanted to hear. If even the idiots that could normally be seen at the Tor were staying away, then something was going on. I thanked Bill for his time, keen to get away from him, offered Reeve a lif
t back to Widecombe, which he thankfully refused, saying he wanted a bit of a walk, loaded Dawn into the Land Rover, and set off.
The next morning was spent eating an all-day brunch at 'spoons. The General Sir Redvers Buller is a typical Wetherspoons. Situated in an historical building, it serves good food and good booze for the best price possible. I loved the building.
You could only enter it by climbing stone steps and entering the foyer. To the left was a largish room with a genuine wood fire, sofa, and leather chairs, as well as some tables. To the right was a slightly smaller room adorned with details of Sir Buller and lacking a fire.
The rest of the building stretched for a good sixty feet or so, with a bar lining the left hand-side. It was full of wood tables, the odd comfy chair, and led through to an old medieval strip garden, which served as their beer garden and fire evacuation point.
As with any pubs, there was a scattering of locals sat in their favourite chairs, nursing pints at nine in the morning. That was a bit early for me, but to each their own.
We nodded, chucked our chins, and gave the odd wave as we made our way to our own favourite seats, a snug set between the left-hand room and the bar.
It was nicely tucked out of sight of most people and, with a Silence Charm activated, utterly private. It was lush. Calling up the 'spoons app, I ordered our usual fry-up and sat back to wait for a well-earned breakfast.
I'd already made my mind up to head into Exeter and see what I could find out from the locals. Kirton doesn't have homeless people. At all. But Exeter, being a city, and a tourist magnet, has homeless in spades.
Most are genuinely homeless. Others are more Magically inclined beings who can’t fully integrate into society and who find the ability to be effectively invisible whilst sitting out in plain sight very handy.
Exeter is an old city. Old Cities often have a lot of events in their past, which make for horrific reading. Take the massacre at Clyst Heath for example. Outside of the old Exeter by a fair distance, it now has a massive supermarket right over where nine hundred Cornish and Devonian rebels had their throats slit in less than ten minutes.
It was also the site of Digby Hospital, a large mental hospital that, when built, would have been a suitable distance away in the countryside from the city. It's a housing estate now, using many of the original buildings. And, sadly, it's called Clyst Heath, probably because the planners preferred naming it after an horrific mass murder to a mental asylum.
That much death, especially what was effectively a sacrificial killing due to the religious nature of the battle, tends to leave a stain on the land. A stain that draws creatures humans really don't want to bump into on a wide road in the middle of the day, let alone a dark alley at night.
Those creatures, in turn, draw loony cultists and other, minor creatures. Some are evil, some neutral, and some are friendly. When they want to be. It was those I would be speaking to.
Dawn was still utterly freaked out by what had happened at Reeve's house.
'He just froze me. I could see and hear everything that was happening, but I couldn't move. I couldn't even draw breath. I was Han bloody Solo, and he was fucking Boba Fett! Inhumane way to treat someone.'
I reached across the table to hold her hand. 'But he is inhuman. Reeve just takes a shape he likes. Currently, he likes that form, but he could just as easily be that Border Terrier over there.'
We both watched as the dog took great relish in licking its balls. ‘But I don't think so.' That broke her mood, and she gave one of those belly-laughs that makes everyone around who hears it smile. I patted her hand gently as we shared the moment.
'Anyway, eat up,' I said, draining the dregs of my fifth cup of tea. ‘We need to get going. Bert should be up by now.'
Dawn groaned. She and Bert didn't really see eye to eye. He thought she liked having her arse pinched by him as a way of flirting. She thought he stank, and that Were-rats, of which he was one, were—overall—utterly vile. It was a stereotype I didn't agree with, but since she'd only dealt with Were-rats that were both utterly vile and often very hands on, I couldn't persuade her otherwise yet.
Bert was sat in his usual place, playing a tin whistle badly, and with a sign that read ‘Magical being down on its luck.’ Technically, that was against all the rules of the Magical world, but since no one in their right mind would believe it, I decided to let it slip.
His clothing of choice was a white shirt, with a long black frock coat, grey trousers, and old-fashioned shoes. His hair was would could charitably be called a basin cut. He looked like everyone's favourite grandpa, only smellier.
'Morning, Bert,' I said as I dropped a fiver into the hat before him. 'Ripe as ever.'
He stank. It was hard to describe just how bad, or of what, only my stomach was telling me that an extra-large fried breakfast was not a good idea. There were dead flies around him.
What the bloody hell kills flies! I thought, giving a little burp behind the hand I had hurriedly clapped to my mouth.
'Way of getting sympathy money, innit? Plus, if I lean in real close, people give me cash just to leave 'em alone.' He cackled, baring long, yellow teeth that looked as though they could gnaw through bone in seconds.
Probably have. The thought sprang to mind before I could stop it.
'What's the word on the street?' I had to get to business as quickly as possible. Dawn burped, cupping her hand to her mouth, before reaching into her bag and liberally squirting body spray into the air.
'Oh, God! That proper reeks, that does! Have a heart maid, that's got right up my sinuses,' whined Bert as he flapped his arms. He only served to waft even more of his body odour in our direction. Dawn gagged and sprayed some more.
'Christ, Bert. Just tell us what you've heard.'
He scooted back from the cloud of body spray as Dawn held her thumb firmly down as if she was spraying a mugger with mace. ‘Fine! Bob, Bill, Davey, Chalky, Smiffy, and Stinky Pete have all gone.'
That was not good news. He'd just named some of the heaviest hitters on the streets. Men and women who were more than happy to do god-awful deeds for little more than pleasure.
'Gone? What do you mean gone?' asked Dawn from behind her hand.
'Gone. Don't know where. We had a pint at the Valiant two nights ago. They were acting shifty, talking about something big coming, and how they were going to get a bit of dosh on the side. Maybe some actual power. Wouldn't tell me anything else about it, gits, so I told 'em to piss the fuck off and left.'
'And you haven't seen them since?' I prodded.
'No. Not a peep. No one has.’ He squinted at me, head cocked, greasy strands of hair hanging loose like the petitioner from Canterbury Tales. ‘Why? What have you heard?'
'Nothing. Nothing good anyway, and that's all you're going to get from me, you cheeky sod.'
'You're working a Mark, aren't you.' Not a question. Statement of fact. Were-rats were cunning, and dealing with them could be like walking through a minefield.
'Yes. Thanks for the information.' I shot Dawn a glance, hoping she would remain schtum. She was still busy trying not to puke, her shoulders shaking as she urged.
'Wait!' He reached out, long fingers with dirt-black fingernails, hands hooked. 'It's serious, isn't it? Do I need to get out?'
'No.' I hoped my tone was reassuring, I didn't want to cause a panic. I wasn't worried about the Mark knowing that I was looking for them, I took it for granted that they'd know. They were a Merlin, after all. Possibly. 'Just keep your ear to the ground, and I'll pay you for anything solid you hear.'
He tipped his non-existent hat. 'Money's always good.'
Nodding goodbye to him, I plucked at Dawn's elbow, and we stepped out of the miasma.
Exeter is full of coffee houses. Most are chains, but there are also some excellent independents. My favourite was the Coffeeshop on Fore Street. It was a hidden gem, located in the better-known Orca Kebab takeaway.
As I tucked in to my six-egg omelette, I summarised what w
e knew so far. 'Reeve is unaware of anything happen on his patch. The only thing that isn't happening is people coming to the Bound Hound. That's significant.'
I took a forkful of omelette and masticated whilst ruminating. 'The second thing is that some of the heaviest hitters in Exeter have disappeared. Which means that someone needed muscle that was neither intelligent or would be sorely missed by concerned parties.'
'What I hear of Stinky Pete, no one will miss him. They'll probably hold a party,' said Dawn. She'd plumped for a sausage and bacon butty. Brown sauce dripped on to her plate as she took a hearty bite.
'So, all activity around the Hound has decreased. Heavy hitters missing. Not presumed dead. Possibly linked to the Merlins, but not confirmed.'
'Not much to go on, is it?'
'No,' I said as I brushed the crumbs my assistant had sprayed over my jacket away, 'and don't talk with your mouth full.'
It was frustrating, but we'd also reached a point where I could try my apprentice's knowledge.
'Tell me about the Merlins. Name one ruling Merlin family. And list the Merlins who live within Exeter and its boundaries.'
I ignored the foul look she gave me and folded my arms as I leant back.
I’d done a lot of research into her background. As I’ve explained already, Dawn somehow ended up with a Mundane family in Torquay after she’d been put up for adoption.
But I’d also discovered that Dawn was actually from a Lost family. A Magical family bred with the Mundanes to a point that they were no longer considered to be Magical. Sometimes however, one of the Lost will Spark, manifesting their Magical abilities. It seemed they fell upon hard times, committed some acts which the Merlins disapproved of, and the family was broken up with the only child, Dawn, being put into care.
When a member of a Lost family Sparks, it's all hands to the pump with everyone rushing to get them sequestered and assigned to a Magician to learn everything they should have been learning for years. In this case, me.
Hell Hound Page 3
