Rhys woke with a start.
It was something he’d been doing a lot lately, in fact ever since he’d encountered Sharon at Burns and Stoke and learned of captured spirits and angry wendigos.
For a moment he didn’t know where he was, and then something large–no, not large–huge–turned over on the floor beside him.
Oh yes.
He was on the floor of Sally the banshee’s gasometer, sleeping in a borrowed blanket on a piece of card next to a troll, a vampire and a goblin.
“Consider all homes, flats, houses, dens and lairs dangerous!” the man called the Midnight Mayor had proclaimed. “Burns and Stoke are clearly on to you lot as being guys in the know, so stick together and don’t be arseholes!”
Motivational speaking, Rhys had decided, was not one of the Midnight Mayor’s job requirements.
My gasometer really is very roomy, Sally had suggested, and I find the touch of moonlight to be rather stimulating if you need a nocturnal guard…
Rhys looked up and, yes, there she was, her wings folded in tight around her body, head dangling and mouth open wide to reveal in full, tongue-dangling glory the sheer black depths of a banshee’s throat. Somewhere behind those deadly fangs was a set of vocal cords that could freeze the blood of man. As Sally slept, her body swayed, the whiteboard she used for communication dangled from her neck, with a washable marker pen Sellotaped to its top.
Rhys felt at the bandages round his middle. They, and he, were intact despite the exertions of the night before. Somehow Magicals Anonymous hadn’t left the shattered remnants of St Christopher’s Hall until four in the morning, when Sharon had posted a note on the splintered front door: Bomb fell–sorry for the inconvenience. He looked at his watch; it was 2.30 in the afternoon, and the rest of the society was still mostly asleep.
Moving with a vain attempt at stealth he crawled out from under his blanket and stepped around the others’ unconscious forms. They included Chris the exorcist, Edna the Friendly and Jess I-turn-into-pigeons. She’d finally turned back into a human, while the long-suffering Jeff shouted, “I’ll black the eyes of anyone who peeks!” before producing clean clothes and a towel kept packed for the occasion. Kevin lay sleeping with a note taped to his shirt warning, Do not wake until sundown or else. Underneath, someone had written, Or else what?
The door to the gasometer was a rusted iron affair, which shrieked as he eased it back before wriggling through the narrowest gap he could and out into the sunlight.
The air was mild, the day brisk and clear. The gasometer stood in a wasteland of buddleia, brambles and tall Japanese knotweed, where piles of toppled brick were stained orange-green by lichen, and the inevitable broken shopping trolley lay upside down with the remnants of soiled plastic bags dribbling out.
Ms Somchit sat on a small pile of breeze blocks by the door, reading a novel. Its cover featured women in romantic floppy hats and a title promising exotic adventure and love ever after. Without glancing up the tiny Alderman informed Rhys that there was a greasy spoon up the road that served breakfast all day.
“No worries, my lovely,” she said as he thanked her. He began to walk, then a thought struck him.
“Where’s… Dog?” He tried to frame the question, shoulders back, as if it concerned a small family pet.
“Walked off at the dawn light,” replied Ms Somchit, turning another page. “Looked east and walked away, and where he had been before, there he suddenly was not. I wouldn’t worry about it; mystical manifestations are like that. Light of day and the incorporeal nature of their beings, all that kind of thing. I’m sure he’ll be found when we need him.”
“Oh… good.”
Le Café Delight stood on a nearby street between a laundrette and a newsagent whose window advertised lessons in Arabic, massages, tango classes (beginner-intermediate) and finest Polish delicacies. The sound of sizzling and the smell of bacon dragged Rhys, zombie-like, through the door, past the early-afternoon clientele of steel-capped construction crew and retired gentlemen reading the naughty pages of the tabloids.
“Can I have… everything?” he said at the counter, reaching into his pocket.
“Full English?” asked the woman.
“With extra tomatoes?” he hazarded and froze. His pockets were empty. Somehow, in all the excitement of the night before, he’d put his wallet down, and he wasn’t quite sure where. “Uh…”
The woman behind the counter put on the universal expression of kindly matrons everywhere who’ve had their kindliness taken for a ride. “You okay, luv?”
“How much is it?” asked a voice behind Rhys.
He couldn’t turn. Relief and shame fought for control of his features and settled for an all-purpose blush.
Sharon leaned past him and pushed a banknote over the counter. “It’s okay,” she added as change was handed back. “He’s had a bad couple of days.”
Rhys swayed with gratitude as Sharon guided him to a plastic bench by a red plastic table shimmering with rubbed-in grease. He realised he’d never been so hungry in his life. As a fresh set of slightly grubby cutlery was placed before him in a crumpled paper napkin, he recalled what must have happened.
“I, uh, think I lost my wallet back in Exmouth Market while dragging a murderer far enough away from his friends so that they all dissolved… you know, into the nether mist. Oh,” he added with a flush of relief, “but I left my credit card in Frances’s flat. Only, seeing as how I’d already been stabbed and it had blood on it, I took it out with my library cards and cycling club card and left them all behind in case something bad happened…”
“It’s the shock,” said Sharon, settling opposite him to resume her breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. “Apparently scented candles are very good for this sort of situation.”
His almost-teatime breakfast was put in front of him, and he attacked like it was personal. Some time passed before he felt free to pause and look up. Sharon was wearing a frown of concentration. She said, “You know, there’s no point denying it. Things are crappy, I mean like, generally. And we may as well say so, because that is the only way in which we shall Overcome Our Issues.” She intoned the words carefully, as one making sure she had them right and hoping others would share in her appreciation.
“Acutally,” she went on, “I’ve been thinking this through… I’ve got no job, no degree, no experience, and I’m what the accountants call financially fucked, and I’m registered to vote in a safe seat, so when the elections come round it’s not even like I can help get these wankers out of government… and I’ve got to save the city and that. And I feel… okay.” The word slipped out, slow and considered.
She tried it again, just to make sure it was right. “O-kay. Yeah! I actually feel… all right about it all. I mean, I can kiss goodbye to new shoes or anything like that, but for the first time since… well, for ever… I feel like I’ve got… something that’s for me. Something I’m meant to do.”
There was a clatter as her fork hit the plate.
She jerked upright, eyes wide. “Oh shit,” she muttered. “That’s what I am. I’m a bum. I’m a self-help shaman and a spirit-walking bum. Jesus.”
Rhys felt he should say something significant. Before he could utter a word, Sharon cut him off anyway.
“We gotta go back to Burns and Stoke. We gotta free the spirits they’ve been pulling from the city. We gotta find these sacrifices they talked about. Undo the spell. Get Greydawn back. Problem is–” her face twisted into a scowl “–it’s the only thing we can do and the wendigo is gonna know it. And it could go really, really bad.”
Her eyes widened at a further thought.
“This must be how heroic stuff happens!” she exclaimed. “I always wondered why people would go running towards the fire, but I guess I get it now–because there’s a bigger fire somewhere else! Wow.” She sank back against her chair. “This has been a learning experience, hasn’t it?”
“Um… Ms Li?”
Sharon’s eyes drifted towards Rhys’s gaze, and he managed to hold her look without flinch, dribble or snot getting in the way.
“I know I’m not very good at the magic thing,” he confessed. “And I know I haven’t been very helpful so far, except in bringing biscuits to meetings. But I was nearly the chosen leader of the sacred circle and I did almost pass my exams. And if I can help, I’d like to.”
Sharon smiled at him.
“Actually,” she said, “I’ve been wondering… What is it that druids do?”