Stray Souls (Magicals Anonymous) (35 page)

To her surprise, Matthew Swift, sorcerer, Midnight Mayor and all-purpose destroyer of anything flammable that got in his path, flinched. “What’ve I done?” he demanded. “I’ve been helpful without being crushing, useful without being obnoxious, handy in a corner—”

“Patronising without being informative,” she corrected. “Cryptic without being directional and,
and
–” and there it was, the pointing finger of accusation before which all who knew her quailed “–and you drove a bus at me! That was bloody you, in bloody Tooting, wasn’t it?”

Was it dignified for the protector of the city to fiddle so with the ragged end of his sleeve, whether or not beneath the baleful gaze of an angry barista-turned-shaman? “I drove a bus at the wendigo,” he
insisted. “At the
wendigo.
And I sent Ms Somchit to look after you, didn’t I? And got Sammy to give you shamaning lessons—”

“A
goblin!”
Sharon felt nothing more needed to be said.

“Frickin’ brilliant goblin!” corrected Sammy.

“And what I want you to really appreciate,” Swift went on, gathering pace beneath Sharon’s red-hot glower, “what I think is very important for you to understand is that, actually, while you’ve been dealing with these minor inconveniences, I’ve been offering a distraction. Serving, in fact, my role as a walking target.”

“Minor inconveniences?! Wendigo! Killer builders! Blood! Claws! Liquid concrete! Howling in the night! Did I mention how calm I’m being here because of my self-control and responsible attitude, because I don’t think I made it clear just how my positive attitude stands in such magnificent contrast to you, being an oily little shite! You tell me–” the finger quivered with rage beneath Swift’s nose, his eyes nearly crossing in an effort to focus on it “–everything you know right now, no cryptic bollocks or I swear I’ll start losing control of my more modest nature and go testicular on you!”

Swift breathed in long and slow, and on the exhalation said, “Uh, okay.” He ticked the points off on his fingers.

“I knew that the city wall was down and Greydawn was gone, and therefore that nasty things were getting in, including her dog.

“I knew that a few years ago Burns and Stoke attempted to summon, bind and compel Greydawn and something went wrong.

“I know that in the last two months every member of the summoning team who attempted to bind Greydawn has been killed by what looked like an animal attack–although where in London you can hide a twenty-stone animal with teeth the size of my fist and whose footsteps burn the earth I have no idea.

“And I suspected–
suspected,
” he added, “that the new CEO of Burns and Stoke might well be more than he seemed.” He hesitated before the sustained ferocity of Sharon’s gaze. “Honest, that’s kind of it from me.”

“He’s probably telling the truth,” admitted Sammy, “seeing as how he’s just an arsehole sorcerer with as much spiritual sense as a cucumber.”

“Did I mention the politics?” complained Swift. “Did I mention that
the Midnight Mayor’s office needs cash to run it? I mean, good intentions are all very well, but how far are you going to get on an empty stomach?”

“What politics?” Sharon’s voice dripped suspicion.

“Burns and Stoke is heavily invested in Harlun and Phelps…”

“And I care because…?”

“… and Harlun and Phelps,” he explained, hastening to address the smoking gun disguised as Sharon’s indignation, “is the company that finances the Aldermen. And the Aldermen, like Ms Somchit, are the people I rely on to do my job. But the thing is, if Harlun and Phelps goes down, there’ll be a lot of people who don’t get their Christmas bonus. And I’m just saying, while I don’t know much about managerial technique, I imagine that might dent company morale? And when company morale has a company armoury and that company armoury includes at least one bazooka, as a good boss I get concerned, yes?”

Sharon considered all these points. “Okay,” she said, “so I don’t have much management experience or anything like that, but I did do business studies at school and I’m just wondering why they couldn’t hide the bazooka.”

“I must admit, that never crossed my mind.”

“There are books, you know? I mean, on how to do management?”

Now it was Swift’s turn to scowl. “Books?”

“There are—” a nasty grin formed in the corner of Sharon’s mouth “–
evening classes
.”

For a moment shaman and sorcerer locked gaze and wills. The Midnight Mayor’s eyes were unnatural in colour and a little inhuman in their intensity. Not many people could look steadily into their bright blue depths. But Sharon hadn’t spent long hours learning to meet her own gaze in the mirror and long, long hours riding the Underground and practising the art of making and breaking eye contact while whispering to herself the secret of all things that concerned her: “I am beautiful, I am wonderful, I have a secret, the secret is…”

… just so that she could flinch now.

Sammy stared, doing his best to disguise his un-shaman-like expression of surprise.

Swift looked away. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that.

Still glaring, Sharon carefully put her hands in her pockets as if to contain the righteous fury that might yet erupt.

“We’ve got a problem,” she said.

“Actually, we’ve got two,” muttered the Midnight Mayor, but as Sharon’s eyes flashed bright again, he raised his hands defensively and said, “But why don’t you go first?”

“The problem,” declared Sharon, “is that Mrs Rafaat is human.”

Swift and Sammy both considered this. “No,” Swift admitted. “That’s not what I was expecting at all.”

“Why, what’s your problem?” Her eyes narrowed sharply when Swift cringed. “And how much am I not gonna like it?”

“The thing is,” muttered Swift, “the circle of wizards who tried to summon Greydawn for Burns and Stoke… they’ve been dying, yes? I mean, Gavin McGafferty was… and then Scott Hidsley was mowed down while running for the old city boundary, and Christian Ardle was disembowelled on Fleet Street, and half of Camilla Long was found floating under Blackfriars, and…” he became aware of the looks on his audience’s faces so hastily moved on to “… and the only member of Burns and Stoke’s summoning team left alive, Eddie, has been hearing the howling in the dark for a couple of nights and so a few hours ago he broke cover and turned king’s evidence, or maybe queen’s evidence, or whatever that evidence is you turn when you try to use it to escape prosecution or being disembowelled by an angry dog spawned of the nether reaches of nightmare and time looking for his mistress, and he is rather running for his life and I did perhaps tell him to come here.”

Silence in the alley.

“You pillock,” said Sammy.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“You incompetent arsehole!”

“I figured, save Eddie’s life, maybe get a couple of shamans to have a look at Dog—”

“You undead wanker nit!”

“Hey, that’s a bit much really.”

Sharon said nothing.

In the stillness she became slowly aware of the ever-present gentle smell of urine which was a required feature of all such passages between dark places. She could smell the beer-soaked breath of the man who’d
left his mark in this place, hear the footsteps of the beggar looking for a place from the cold, the laughter of children playing hide and seek in the park at the end of the alley, smell the coal smoke that had once burned in the chimney stacks of Clerkenwell, see the footsteps that stretched out impossibly behind Sammy, a great long journey at his back, still not complete, and she thought she saw a flash of brilliance as Dez flickered across the surface of her mind, her spirit guide winking lewdly as he passed, and when she looked at the man called Matthew Swift she saw…

        
feet shuffle lonely on cold street too far too far too far

splash! bus tyres through the puddle sheet of water drenching the passer-by

     
help us

aerial hum with TV signal

               
window rustle with feedback noise

we be light we be life we be fire!

         
hooooowwwwlllll!

come be we and be free

             
blood in the stones

… everything.

“I’ll just go and combat Dog with all the primal forces of fire and magic at my command, shall I, while you have a mull,” Swift was proclaiming.

“Bloody hell,” she said, and didn’t realise she’d spoken until the words were already out, “you’re, like, an angel.”

Swift started. The words came from so far from beyond his field of expectation, he didn’t know how to respond.

“Which isn’t like, to say, divine or pretty or sweet or any good at playing the trombone,” she asserted, “because there’s blood on your hands and fire under your skin, and where you walk the shadows turn. But I’m just saying… holy shit, and that.”

Sammy nudged Swift in the kneecaps. “Told you I was a bloody amazing bloody teacher,” he murmured. “Less than a week and she’s already doing the truth-of-things shit. Just you wait till we get on to the walking-of-the-path stuff, it’s gonna be immense.”

“You left your tribe.” Sharon knew she was speaking but couldn’t connect the knowledge with the power to stop. The words happened around her, through her, with the absolute certainty of fact, and as she
spoke she saw Sammy’s eyes widen and felt the dirt beneath his feet and the dryness in his mouth. “You were their shaman and you left. Why would you do that?”

“Then again,” offered Sammy, “there’s being a decent student and being an insufferable swot.”

“Sharon?” Swift’s voice was lined with cautious concern. “You okay?”

“I… Yes. I’m fine. I can see… and I can
hear
.” She swayed, the sweat beginning to stand out on her face. “He’s close. His feet are silent, but his footsteps burn the earth. He can smell his mistress–he knows she’s here–but the scent is confusing. He’s frightened, Dog is frightened. So he grows angry. That’s how he lives with being afraid. He wants his mistress back.”

Swift gave an uneasy thumbs up. “Fantastic!” he exclaimed. “Full marks on channelling the raging essence of an unleashed primal monster. Minus several hundred for freaking me out while doing it.”

“Oi! I give the grades for shamaning round here,” snapped Sammy. “And while I’m with you on the high marks for sensing the stones of the city and that, I got a few technical niggles with technique. There weren’t no chanting or ceremonial drums or
nothing,
and that’s just gonna let down the punters.”

“Ceremonial drums?” demanded Swift. “What the hell?”

“You gotta think what your audience wants. It’s all very well being wise and shit, but if people don’t buy into the spiel then what’s the point?”

“Chanting? I thought more of you.”

“Like you haven’t added a few pyrotechnics when you wanna—”

“Hey, if I do that, to convince people that throwing spells at me is a stupid idea, it’s showmanship where
death
is on the line, rather than this whole dancing, drumming, feathers shit.”

“Did I say anything about
feathers,
did you hear me say anything about feathers?”

“He’s here.” Sharon was leaning on the wall for support and there was a ghostly greyness about her face, eyes focused on nothing much and everything in particular.

Howl!

And there it was, all around, not so much a sound as a pressure, a shaking, a street-depth wall of fury that rose up from the stones
beneath their feet, split the air, tinkled the drifts of broken glass and sent birds flapping for safety.

HOWL!!

Sammy looked at Swift; Swift looked at Sammy. In a moment of immediate resolution they each took Sharon by an elbow and guided her back down the alley and into the wreckage of St Christopher’s Hall. The ragtag remains of Magicals Anonymous were still gathered round Kevin, who, minus one crowbar to the chest, was now sitting back on a broken plastic chair being fanned by Chris with his copy of
Psychoexorcism Monthly.
Pigeons still fluttered in the rafters while beneath, Jess’s partner, the long-suffering Jeff, struggled to lure them down with biscuit crumbs strewn on the splintered floorboards.

Mrs Rafaat was staring up through the shattered windows at the gloomy night beyond. “Did anyone hear something?”

A second later, Edna, red-faced and breathless, was by Sharon’s side. “Did you hear it? It’s—”

“Dog, yeah, we know,” said Sammy. “Oi, Sharon!” He shook her, but, having only an elbow within shaking distance, the effect was rather feeble. “Oi!” he shouted. “Soggy-brains!”

Sharon blinked dreamily down at him. “Hello, Sammy,” she replied with an empty smile. “I think I need an early night.”

“Who’s that?” demanded Rhys on seeing Swift. It came out more defensively than he’d intended.

Swift beamed at the ginger druid and held out a gloved hand. “Hi. Matthew Swift, Defender of the City, Guardian of the Night, Keeper of the Gate and so on and so forth, nice to meet you. You wouldn’t be, by any chance, an extremely competent battle mage ready for a fight?”

“I’m a druid, see,” blundered Rhys, too numb to shake the hand that was offered.

“A potent and angry druid?” suggested Swift hopefully.

His only answer was a profound and sudden sneeze.

HOWL!!

There were no doubts this time, no illusions; the whole hall looked up at the sound, felt it ripple through the earth, bend the walls.

Mrs Rafaat drifted towards the door before Edna grabbed her and exclaimed, “Dearie, I’m not sure you’ll like it out there.”

An inane grin was still stuck to Sharon’s face. “Actually,” she offered, “I think she’ll be okay.”

Edna detached herself from Mrs Rafaat. “Maybe,” she said quickly, “I haven’t told you everything you need to know about Greydawn’s dog.”

“No, we got the gist,” said Sharon with a cheerfulness that Rhys was beginning to recognise as near-hysteria. “Partner of Greydawn, does the darkness, does the violence, killing all those who tried to trap her, roaming the night, looking for its mistress. Am I missing anything?”