Magicals Anonymous, assembled again at St Christopher’s Hall in Exmouth Market.
Some came because it was that time of the week–meeting day–and because they’d heard about how positive the last meeting was.
Some came because friends recommended the biscuits and said it was a nice place to chill.
At least one came because she was looking for a hot date who didn’t mind the occasional lump of lava between the bedsheets.
But many came because of the message, blasted out via emails and telephones: the city is in danger, and now so are you.
Rhys came in a wheelchair. He didn’t really need a wheelchair, but once the idea had been suggested everyone was very much in favour. Sally the banshee said he shouldn’t take risks with his health after a wendigo attack and explained that banshees had never like wendigos to begin with, though she was sure that wasn’t a species thing. Kevin pointed out that you couldn’t be too careful with stitches. Gretel said she didn’t mind pushing, and, actually, with seven foot of troll at his back Rhys did feel rather more safe.
Sharon hadn’t really approved of the wheelchair, but then Sharon had a lot on her mind. Rhys had seen her talking, in corners, voice lowered, with the goblin about what he could only assume were Shaman Things.
Mr Roding the necromancer had decided to attend because, “The Midnight Mayor gave me this spiel about the fate of the city and said he needed a necromancer. I told him how poorly I thought of that idea, but then someone firebombed the local Friendlies shrine, which left a very bad impression on me.”
The Midnight Mayor visited me too! wrote Sally as chairs for the guests were laid out beneath her in the church hall. He is a little ignorant of modern art, but I think we had a breakthrough with some of the bolder sculptures. Also, four angry men attacked an ambassador from the Beggar King, proclaiming that none would survive unless they showed them where Greydawn was, which I think is very bad manners.
“Firebombing is a very unpleasant reaction,” confirmed Gretel. The plastic chairs were warping beneath her fingertips as she gingerly placed them in a ragged circle around the centre of the room.
There were more attendees this week, Rhys noticed. He’d heard the clattering of laptops as he recuperated in Frances’s flat but hadn’t appreciated just how far the word had spread. As Junior Judo cleared out and Magicals Anonymous filed in, he spotted a family of imps wriggling out of an air vent at the side of the hall (“Is there more to life than landfills?”), felt the wash of cold air as a grubby ice demon wafted by, spawned from the back reaches of catering freezers (“Global Warming really concerns me”), heard the snicker-snack of tiny claws on the polished floor as a gremlin spider (“You just can’t get the recycling”), its plastic head spinning above its articulated body, tried to climb up a plastic chair and into a splayed sitting position. Kevin had retreated to a corner, a white face mask pressed over his mouth and nose.
“Do you know how many germs imps have?” he quavered.
“What disappoints me,” offered Chris (“Exorcism doesn’t have to be exciting!”), “is how low the turnout of the living dead is.”
Before long all the chairs were occupied, albeit with Gretel taking two, and those members of Magicals Anonymous with limbs best suited to the floor were folding themselves up inside the circle.
In the true spirit of the occasion, Sharon had bought biscuits. Gretel had clearly consulted on the purchase for, to the standard fare of Jammie Dodgers and custard creams someone had added a Deluxe Mixed Family Pack and an Authentic Shortbread.
The time came for Sharon to climb onto one of the chairs and bring the meeting to order.
“Hello!” she called out, and was ignored. “Hello!” she tried again, a little louder. From his corner by the neglected dusty piano, Sammy slurped toothpaste; plastic seats creaked beneath Gretel; and a couple of witches wearing T-shirts proclaiming FREE SANITARY TOWELS FOR ALL! furtively leaned away from Mr Roding’s body odour.
“Oi, you lot!” yelled Sharon, and the meeting turned to look. “Um, hello,” she added. Dozens of pairs of eyes, only some of which were in the usual blue–brown spectrum, flickered, blinked or bulged at her. “So, my name’s Sharon…”
“Hello, Sharon!” chorused the room.
“… and I’d like to talk to you tonight about the fate of the city.”