As Paris finished his explanation he experienced a sense of quiet satisfaction. The mad goings-on of the last few days were finally making sense to him. He’d worked it out. It was, after all, his job to piece together apparently contradictory bits of information, and he did it well. He couldn’t expect anyone else here to have solved the puzzle. Not even Malbus, who was supposed to be a cop, but had never struck Paris as inspector material. Feather boa material, maybe. He studied the bemused faces in front of him and waited expectantly for their reaction.
‘I disagree,’ said Olian.
‘No,’ said Tergil.
‘Nah,’ said Malbus. ‘You’re having a laugh.’
Paris was somewhat taken aback. His sense of satisfaction disappeared as quickly as it had come.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘You all keep saying how warlike they are and how they’re trying to conquer everywhere.’
‘Not here,’ said Malbus. ‘They’ve already told us that.’
Paris stared at the bird, completely baffled. ‘When the hell did they tell us?’
‘To be fair,’ said Tergil, ‘they have not actually told you.’ He gestured towards Malbus and Olian. ‘Though they did inform us. Perhaps I should explain.’
‘Yeah,’ said Paris, feeling more confused than ever. ‘Perhaps you should.’
‘There are many races in the magic world,’ said the elf. ‘Many countries. The Vanethria are not at war with every one of them. Some countries are neutral, or even their allies. Occasionally, groups will flee from lands under demon control into a neutral country. The Vanethria want to bring them back, but they cannot simply march into another realm.’
‘Unless they wanna invade the place,’ said Malbus.
‘Precisely. If they do not want to start a war, they need a way of declaring their intentions. Hence the crucifixion symbol. It means two things. For the escapees, it means “We know where you are. Come back willingly, or we will hunt you down.” For the country they are in, it means “This is not an attack. We are sending a small force to capture these escapees. That is all.”’
‘Damn right,’ said Malbus. ‘It’s what we call the rules of engagement.’
Paris sat dumbfounded for a moment. Then he shook his head.
‘I wish,’ he said, ‘somebody had told me the rules before we started playing the game.’
‘It is not going to be an issue for you,’ said Tergil. ‘And we are only concerned with getting through the portal. Placing a crucified body there means it is now the border, so the demons must have expanded their territory to that point. However, they have no intention of coming any further.’
‘Yeah,’ said Malbus. ‘Already talked about them invading here, then gave that idea the boot. Ain’t gonna happen.’
The elf and the bird both seemed certain of what they were saying. At least, insofar as Paris could never break through Tergil’s blank expression, and he had no idea how to read the faces of crows. But their words carried conviction. He was confused. He sat back in his chair and scratched his head.
‘Go on then,’ he said, looking at Tergil. ‘Explain it to me. Why won’t it happen? You’ve said demons have no interest in humans. Eric the dwarf said they wouldn’t attack us because we’ve got no magic powers. So what’s going on?’
Tergil mulled over the question for a moment.
‘There are,’ he said, ‘two separate points here which you are confusing. Firstly, when Eric stated that your lack of mystical powers will prevent you from being attacked, he is correct. He is not considering the big picture, but he is nevertheless accurate. You see, demons will sometimes kill other magical creatures, with different abilities, in order to try and assimilate those abilities.’
‘He means,’ said Malbus, ‘they eat them.’
‘Really?’ asked Cassandra, wide-eyed.
‘Yes,’ answered Tergil. ‘Does that shock you?’
‘No,’ replied the witch. ‘But it’s a whole new behaviour to document!’
Paris glanced at her. As usual, nothing fazed her. They were discussing being eaten, and she wanted to record it for posterity. The mind boggled.
‘Indeed,’ said Tergil, turning back towards the cop. ‘For instance, demons will consume dragons, as they believe doing so will allow them to breathe fire. A similar rationale to some of your traditional medicines, I gather, and with as little scientific basis. Fortunately for your kind, humans have no special talents which can be absorbed in this way.’
Paris’s mind went back to the conversation with the dwarf. Suddenly it made a lot more sense. He’d also never been happier being dull and boring.
‘What’s the second point?’ he asked.
‘The broader view,’ replied Tergil. ‘When I said that the Vanethria had no interest in humans, I was not talking about assaults upon individuals. I meant they had no interest in attacking your world. And not because of the culinary limitations. Because of your technology.’
‘Damn right,’ added Malbus. ‘See, anyone from our world who comes here is a bit gobsmacked at first, like you said. You reckon there’s serious magic on the go and you probably don’t wanna upset whoever owns the place. Then, after a while, you realise it ain’t magic at all. It’s something much stronger. You start thinking you really don’t wanna annoy the folks who live here.’
‘Although Vanethria soldiers are large and powerful,’ said Tergil, ‘they are still only flesh and blood. They cannot stand against your bullets or tanks.’
‘Yeah,’ said Malbus. ‘That’s why they ain’t gonna try it on here, ’cos it’d be suicide. Demons may be dumb, but they ain’t completely stupid.’
Paris looked at the two of them, with Olian in between nodding agreement. His brilliant piece of deduction was turning out to be complete rubbish. Rubbish that everyone else had already worked out and dismissed.
‘Seriously?’ he said. ‘They won’t try to conquer us, even with magic?’
‘Even with magic,’ replied Tergil. ‘Their battle mages would not tilt the balance enough to make a significant difference. It comes down to the weaponry available. Our level of technological development corresponds approximately to your medieval period. The dwarves have developed rudimentary cannons, which are the pinnacle of armaments in our world, although they pale into insignificance against your guns. Most magical creatures still battle hand-to-hand using clubs and axes.’
‘Makes sense,’ said Cassandra. ‘That’s why it’s called “swords and sorcery”. You never hear about the three little pigs and the big bad AK-47.’
Paris looked at her. She was evidently trying to lighten the mood, but it wasn’t working. He turned back towards Malbus for one last try.
‘Alright then. So tell me this. Why did the Vanethria chase the centaurs away?’
‘I’ve been wondering that myself,’ said the crow. ‘Olian, did you guys do anything to upset them?’
‘No,’ replied Olian. ‘We simply insisted they let us get to the portal and demanded they got out of our way.’
‘Right,’ said Malbus slowly. ‘Insisting and demanding. Yeah, that always goes down well with demons.’
Paris gritted his teeth. Five minutes ago, he thought he’d worked it out. How had he got it all wrong?
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Cassandra. ‘You seem annoyed.’
‘I am annoyed,’ replied Paris. ‘I feel like I’ve assembled the pieces of a jigsaw and come up with a different picture than the one on the box.’
‘Yeah, well,’ said Malbus. ‘First time we met it looked as if you were using booze to stick the pieces together. You ain’t got none right now. Maybe you need some different glue.’
It was probably intended as a light-hearted, throwaway line, but it cut Paris deeply. The grain of truth at the heart of the joke got under his skin. It irritated him immensely.
‘Whatever you’re doing to work it out,’ said Olian, ‘I assume we’re all agreed? The Vanethria are here rounding up escapees and being more obnoxious about it th
an usual. I still want to make an official complaint.’
Paris weighed up the request. She wanted him to track down two-metre-tall killing machines and give them a lecture. Preferably without getting eaten. However, he wasn’t in the mood to argue.
‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said, with as much conviction as he could muster.
‘Good,’ replied the centaur. ‘Now I must go. I have things to do.’
Paris said nothing. He watched her do a graceful three-point turn in front of the fireplace and head back out through the tarpaulin. Didn’t even say goodbye, he thought.
‘I have to take her,’ said Tergil. ‘And I ought to return the car I borrowed. I will see you back at the station.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Malbus. ‘I’ll tell you how I avoided certain death at the hands of the V. You can tell me how you did the same.’
Paris pondered. What narrow escape was this? Yet another thing Tergil hadn’t told him. He added it to his list of mental notes. Pretty soon he’d need a bigger sheet of mental notepaper.
The elf followed the centaur out of the house. He did at least wave a farewell, as he held the tarpaulin open for Malbus to get through. The sheet flopped back down behind him, then Paris and Cassandra were left on their own.
‘Interesting guests you have here,’ said the witch. She considered the rubble strewn across the carpet. ‘Interesting decor too.’
‘Yeah,’ said Paris. ‘That’s what happens when visitors like this come round. First they mess up your house – then they mess up your head.’
Cassandra eyed him thoughtfully.
‘You okay?’ she asked.
‘I’ll live.’
He looked back at her, observing the hint of a smile forming on the edge of her lips.
‘You’re not used to getting things wrong, are you?’ she asked. ‘I think you’re more embarrassed than annoyed.’
Paris frowned.
Cassandra laughed. ‘Never mind. Just me and you now. Everyone causing the pain has gone.’
‘Right,’ replied Paris, keen to change the subject. ‘Which reminds me – I’ve got to check something.’
He stood up and moved towards the front of the house. Cassandra watched with curiosity as he passed and he knew she would follow him. People were much easier to read than elves and crows.
Paris walked past his computer to the window. He wanted to find out how Olian moved around without being noticed and this was the best chance he would get. He saw three figures emerge from round the side of the building. Tergil, with his ears covered by the now familiar woolly hat. Malbus, perched on his shoulder. And Olian – possibly. She appeared to be out of focus. Paris perceived her simultaneously as both a centaur and a tall blonde woman in a brown skirt.
‘What the hell?’ he said.
Cassandra peered over his shoulder. ‘That’ll be the spell of concealment. Spooky.’
Paris glanced at the witch. She didn’t sound at all spooked. No surprise there then.
‘Really?’ he asked. ‘How is that concealing anything? You’re more likely to look at her!’
‘Except most people will only see the woman. Your eyes are telling you it’s a person, but your brain knows she’s a centaur. So they’re having a bit of an argument. People who’ve never seen her as a centaur, they won’t even think about it.’
She moved round him and leant against the windowsill. Paris stared at her, trying to work out what she was telling him.
‘That’s how they keep out of sight from us,’ she said. ‘Low-level spells which don’t need much energy. Clever, eh? It works because most people don’t understand magic and don’t have any contact with it.’
Paris’s brain struggled to make sense of the information. It gave up as another notion crashed into his consciousness.
‘You are going to have to tell me how this stuff actually works,’ he said. ‘Only not right this minute. I’ve just realised something else.’
‘What?’
‘There’s one person who’s had contact with magic that I’ve forgotten about. The guy who lives where we found the dead fairy. Mystical creatures have been going to his garden for the past two nights. But he hasn’t reported anything else. So what’s happened to him?’
19
Bonetti turned off the car’s engine and gazed out of the side window.
‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Lange Road. Where it all started. The house with the fairy on the back lawn. This might be weird, but I still say it beats the hell out of garden gnomes.’
Paris peered out through the windscreen. ‘Somehow, Bonetti, I don’t think this neighbourhood does gnomes.’
The sergeant nodded. ‘You’re probably right, Boss. I mean, some parts of Didsbury are fairly ordinary, aren’t they? Some are quite nice. But this? This is very nice.’
Paris couldn’t argue. They were parked on a wide, tree-lined road running between large detached houses. Every home was different, yet equally impressive. Expensive cars sat on the driveways in front of them. Scent from immaculate flowerbeds mingled with the unmistakeable air of wealth. This was, after all, the richest part of the richest suburb in Manchester. Not the sort of place you’d expect to find a crucified corpse fifteen centimetres tall. Then again – where would you?
‘Yes, it’s lovely,’ said Cassandra from the back seat. ‘We haven’t come here to admire the scenery, though, have we?’
Bonetti looked at her in the rear-view mirror.
‘You shouldn’t even be here at all,’ he said.
For the second time in as many minutes, Paris had to agree. Protocol stated that you shouldn’t bring members of the public to crime scenes. Working on this case, however, protocol didn’t really feature. It had not so much left the building as handed in its notice and buggered off to a retirement cottage in Skegness.
‘She’s here because she knows about magic,’ said Paris. ‘That’s why we asked for her advice.’
Bonetti snorted. ‘Well, I’m not convinced. She hasn’t done anything so far except tell us when the crow arrived at her shop. And that was probably a lucky guess!’
Paris pondered. Bonetti hadn’t been in the living room when they watched Olian walk away. He was still in the kitchen, making the tea – which takes a long time if you forget to switch the kettle on. So he didn’t see the shimmering, out-of-focus sight that represented the centaur’s concealment spell in action. He didn’t hear the witch’s weird but matter-of-fact explanation. Yes, thought Paris, she knows magic. She hadn’t explained it to him yet; leaping straight into the car and driving here hadn’t allowed time for profound conversations. But she knew.
He glanced at Cassandra. Had the attempted jibe or the lack of faith upset her? Evidently not. She seemed, as he’d come to expect, completely unruffled.
‘If you want me to turn you into a frog,’ she said, ‘you’re out of luck. I need to start with a handsome prince.’
Bonetti opened his mouth to reply, only to close it again without saying anything. Paris just about managed to keep his own mouth from grinning too much. He twisted round to face her. Cassandra smiled innocently at him.
‘So what do you want me to do?’ she asked. ‘Talk to the various creatures for you? Because, if you don’t mind me saying, some of them don’t sound too friendly.’
‘There won’t be any around,’ replied Paris. ‘It’s still early evening. Fairly light. They don’t come out until night-time, remember? I do want your help, though. You might be able to point out this “mystical gateway” for us.’
Bonetti gave Paris a confused look. ‘We don’t know where it is, Boss. Don’t know what it is. We checked the garden the other day. Didn’t spot anything then.’
‘Right. But we weren’t even aware of it then. So we weren’t trying to find it.’
‘I don’t see how we’re going to find it now,’ said the sergeant. ‘It’s not like there’s a big sign saying “elves and goblins this way”.’
Paris smiled.
‘I
bet there is,’ he said. ‘If you understand what you’re looking for.’
Cassandra leant forward against the front seats.
‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘So what’s the plan? Are you two going to charge in there, Starsky & Hutch style? I could be Huggy Bear.’
Paris studied her. Too young to remember the TV show, he knew that already. Perhaps covens moved with the times and spent their evenings watching DVDs rather than sacrificing goats. Besides, a white woman in pale make-up and thick black eyeshadow, wearing a long navy duffle coat? Cassandra was undoubtedly many things, but Huggy Bear wasn’t one of them. Paddington, maybe.
‘We’re not going to charge anywhere,’ he said. ‘Not before I figure out what I’m charging into. Besides, there’s a couple of possible reasons why we haven’t heard from this bloke. And neither of them will be altered by us breaking the door down.’
‘Really? You want to tell me what these reasons are?’
Paris held up his right hand and began counting on his fingers. ‘Option one: finding the dead fairy was quite enough for him and he cleared off. Might be on the other side of the country by now. Option two: he didn’t clear off, the Vanethria got him, and he’s already dead.’
‘Option three,’ said Bonetti. ‘He’s gone deaf.’
Paris sat with two fingers raised towards his sergeant.
‘You think,’ he said, ‘that would explain why the demons haven’t killed him?’
‘Well, no, Boss. But it would explain why he didn’t answer the phone.’
Another statement Paris felt he couldn’t argue with. Mainly because doing so would require him to shove a phone somewhere Bonetti definitely wouldn’t be able to answer it.
‘There is a fourth possibility,’ said Cassandra. ‘He might’ve just appeared at the front window, dressed like a ticket inspector.’
Breaking the Lore Page 11