by Helen Harper
‘Who would pay you?’ Winter asked.
Hmm. Good question. I pocketed the keys and we walked towards the main building in search of the Ipsissimus. Brutus fell in beside us, although he seemed rather distracted by the new environment and kept stopping to sniff suspiciously at scary objects. He appeared convinced that the empty packet of crisps tumbling in the breeze was out to get him.
‘I could get the families to pay me,’ I said finally. ‘You know, the descendants of the ghosts or whoever it is who cursed their souls in the first place. I’m doing them a favour – they should pay for the privilege of no longer being haunted.’
‘Except,’ Winter said, bending over to grab the crisp packet and drop it in a nearby bin, ‘they don’t know they’re being haunted. So why would they be grateful?’
I rubbed my chin. ‘Maybe before the curses are cleared, we get the spirits to tell us where all the ancient family heirlooms are buried.’
‘Because every family must have buried heirlooms?’
Brutus leapt onto the top of the bin and peered inside before pawing for the crisp packet. He obviously didn’t get out enough.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘For a start, in the corner of my parents’ garden there’s the head of a Barbie doll that I buried when I was a kid. Goodness only knows what else is there.’
‘The head of Barbie doll? Treasure indeed.’ Winter smiled.
‘For all you know,’ I said, ‘it could be a collector’s item.’
A small group of red-robed witches appeared from round the corner. When they caught sight of us, one of them immediately peeled away and raised a hand in greeting. ‘Adeptus Exemptus Winter!’
Winter let out a hiss of irritation but he stopped and waited for the witch to catch up to us. ‘Magister Templi Kirk,’ he said formally.
I stood to one side, watching with interest as Kirk, a Third Level witch and therefore higher in the Order hierarchy than Winter, all but bowed to him.
‘You’re back!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m so pleased! We’ve missed you hugely. I cannot wait to get your opinion on my latest project. It’s really suffering for not having your input. You see I’m trying to combine—’
Winter held up a hand, interrupting the flood of words. ‘I’m not back. I’m just here with my partner to see the Ipsissimus.’
I smiled and waved. ‘That’s me. I’m his partner. Me. Ivy Wilde.’
Magister Templi Kirk threw me a distracted glance. ‘Oh yes. You’re the one who stopped the teenage necromancer. Well done.’
I beamed. A beat later, however, Kirk returned his full attention to Winter. ‘Why aren’t you back?’ he demanded. ‘We need you.’ His words could have sounded petulant but instead he came across as confused – and more than a little desperate.
‘I don’t belong here any more,’ Winter said. ‘The Order is not the place for me.’
‘Of course it’s the place for you!’ Kirk protested.
Winter smiled. ‘We should get going.’
‘Wait! Can you tell me if you think I’m doing the right thing? I’ve been using catnip and hibiscus to work on a spell to alleviate depression but every time I test it, it creates a terrible skin rash.’
Winter frowned. ‘How are you purifying the catnip?’
‘The usual way, with a pinch of salt.’
He shook his head. ‘No. That won’t work. Catnip has unusual properties. Stick with the salt but try adding some dried sage. That should clear up your problems.’
Kirk’s expression transformed in an instant. ‘Sage,’ he breathed. ‘Of course, I should have thought of that. I asked several other herblore experts and none of them mentioned it but the purifying properties will definitely make a difference. You’re a genius, Adeptus Exemptus. Thank you so much.’
Winter forced a smile. ‘It’s just Rafe. I’m not an Adeptus Exemptus any longer.’
‘You always will be in my eyes,’ Kirk said, without a trace of irony. I glanced round, half expecting to see a full orchestra playing a stirring soundtrack. Honestly, the situation really called for it.
‘I have to go now, Magister,’ Winter said.
Kirk’s eyes widened in apology. ‘Yes, yes! I’m so sorry to have kept you. You must be very busy.’ He hesitated. ‘Please reconsider your decision to return.’
Winter half grimaced and half smiled and turned away. I shot Kirk a quick smile of my own and joined him. ‘I thought I was the only person in the world who could possibly be in love with you,’ I said. ‘Now I realise I have a lot of competition.’
Winter looked exasperated. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m not. Seriously, Rafe, that witch was ready to prostrate himself at your feet.’
‘He’s like that with everyone,’ Winter dismissed.
Actually, I didn’t think he was. In fact, I didn’t think Winter had any idea just how much people around here wanted him. I understood it because I wanted him too. The trouble for the Order was that I had him and they didn’t.
‘Let’s focus on the matter in hand, shall we?’ he grunted. ‘Look, there’s the Ipsissimus. We can talk to him here without going up to his office. That’ll please you.’
I glanced over, following his finger. He was right: Ipsissimus Collings was strolling along a well-kept path round the corner of the Runic Magic building. He wasn’t alone; Philip Maidmont, handily, was with him. The pair of them were deep in conversation, their serious expressions and stiff body language suggesting that they weren’t discussing what was on television last night. I bet that their topic of conversation started with the letter ‘B’ and ended with ‘beard’. I opened my mouth to shout to them. That was when I realised what they were walking towards.
‘No!’ I shrieked.
Both the Ipsissimus and Maidmont glanced up. They saw us – but they also carried on walking. No, no, no, no, no! Round the corner of the building and out of their sight – but visible to me – was a ladder. If the pair of them took just four or five more steps they’d walk right underneath it. If there is an omen that is destined to screw up your day, your week, your month and quite possibly your entire life, it is walking under a ladder.
Freaking out in a manner most unusual for me, I flapped my arms. Winter stopped and stared at me, mystified. But then he’d never understood superstitions and the power they really held.
Realising that something was wrong, the Ipsissimus did exactly the opposite to what I wanted and sped up to find out what the problem was. Time slowed around me, like in a Hollywood movie when you know the hero is in mortal danger. Reminding myself to breathe, I lifted both hands and concentrated. This needed to be one of the fastest spells I’d ever cast but I couldn’t afford for it to be sloppy.
‘Ivy?’ Winter began.
From behind, Brutus let out a yowl and barrelled towards the two men. At least he recognised the danger. As I flicked out a double-handed rune, Brutus bounded towards the ladder. Almost simultaneously, my spell toppled it as Brutus also smashed into it. There was a loud clatter as the offending object hit the path. Praise be – that was a close-run thing. I doubled over, breathing hard.
Maidmont spotted the ladder and started to hyperventilate whilst the Ipsissimus definitely appeared concerned. Winter just looked a bit puzzled. ‘What’s wrong? Is someone there? Is there a problem?’ he asked.
Jeez. I gasped, trying to catch my breath. ‘Ladder,’ I wheezed.
‘Huh?’ There was a pause. ‘Oh.’
I twisted my head towards him in time to catch his beautiful blue eyes rolling in amusement and exasperation. ‘It’s just a superstition.’
I managed to straighten up, although my breathing still wasn’t back to normal. ‘It’s not just a superstition, Rafe!’ I shook my head and jogged over to Maidmont and the Ipsissimus. At this rate, I’d give myself an aneurysm.
‘How can you let ladders onto this campus?’ I yelled, admonishing the Ipsissimus. ‘And who the hell would leave one lying around like this?’ I swung my head from side to s
ide as if expecting a ninja assassin to appear at any second.
Ipsissimus Collings didn’t look particularly happy but he wasn’t panicking either. ‘There are renovations taking place. We’ve recruited a non-witch construction firm. One of them must have left the ladder here by accident. I’ll have words with them. It won’t happen again.’
I was tempted to continue yelling at him to press home the potential consequences of such death traps in the Order headquarters. Given the circumstances of our visit, however, there were probably more important things to talk about. Brutus, almost as shaken as I was, leapt into my arms. I stroked him, as much to calm myself as to calm my cat.
‘We need to talk about Blackbeard,’ Winter said. ‘There have been some developments with our investigation.’
The Ipsissimus nodded. ‘Excellent. We have some new information too, although I’m not sure how helpful it will be. We should move inside for some privacy.’ He looked around. ‘And so that we’re not in any further danger from construction equipment cursing us to eternity.’
Maidmont looked ready to turn tail and run screaming for the hills. I didn’t blame him; I was tempted to jump on his back and demand a piggyback to the same place. Instead, I stroked Brutus a bit more and remembered to breathe.
‘Sure,’ I said, the epitome of casual behaviour. In fact, if anyone looked up ‘relaxed’ in the dictionary, my photo would be right there. Nobody would be able to tell that I was actually quaking in my boots. ‘That sounds fabulous.’
Winter patted my hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘The nasty ladder has fallen down and can’t hurt you any more. We’re all perfectly safe. You don’t have to panic.’
Darn it.
Rather than take us up to his office, the Ipsissimus led us towards a small room on the ground floor of his building. No wonder renovations were underway around the Order; we were in the room that time forgot. It was cramped and, quite possibly, dustier than the top shelf in my bedroom that I couldn’t see over so I never cleaned it. One side of the room was crammed full of books, most of which probably hadn’t been opened in decades. The other side was filled with the strangest examples of taxidermy I’d ever seen.
‘Is that a stuffed deer?’ I asked.
The Ipsissimus didn’t look up. ‘Yes.’
‘With floppy rabbit ears?’
‘Hare,’ Winter interjected helpfully.
‘My favourite is the cat,’ Maidmont said.
I looked round. ‘The one with the horn?’
He nodded cheerfully.
I stared at the three of them. Still in my arms, Brutus growled. ‘What the hell is this place? Have you lot been experimenting with magically spliced animals?’
The Ipsissimus waved a hand dismissively. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. These were all completed post-mortem, and not even by a witch.’
‘They were donated,’ Maidmont said. ‘Along with a generous annual stipend on the proviso that the collection is on display.’
I didn’t care how generous the stipend was, these things were damned creepy. ‘That winged bear is staring at me.’ I bent down to Brutus. ‘Kill,’ I whispered to him. ‘Kill the bear.’ I released him onto the floor with a gentle nudge in the bear’s direction. Brutus threw me a baleful look and darted under the table to avoid the creature’s glassy-eyed gaze. I shuffled over to Winter and hunkered down next to him. He was a bigger target.
‘So,’ the Ipsissimus said, settling back into an ornate mahogany chair with flea-ridden velvet cushions. ‘What exactly have you discovered?’
Winter spoke clearly and succinctly, outlining everything we’d found out so far from Clare Rees, her family and Professor Wiggins. As he spoke, it occurred to me that none of it was good.
The Ipsissimus pursed his lips. ‘I’ve been back here for several hours. I’ve had reports from Human Resources regarding Rees and her coven’s application for admission to the Order. I have to say, there’s not much information. Their application was received two months ago and background checks and initial interviews with friends and family members were started.’
Two months ago. By that point they were all already dead.
‘Is there any record of the coven’s interviews?’ Winter asked.
‘That’s the only interesting part. They were due to take part next week. They’ve been delayed because apparently the coven is away on a meditation holiday to improve their magic.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘About the holiday? We received a letter from them. It is how we usually communicate, Ms Wilde. Email and telephone are too unreliable and dangerous with all the magic around here, so we rely on the old-fashioned methods of posted letters or face-to-face communication. It’s why so many people consider us dinosaurs. But you can learn so much more from someone’s facial expressions or penmanship than you can from an emoticon.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? And what did you learn from the penmanship of seven dead witches?’
He grimaced. ‘Alas, all the letters we received were typed. The police have taken them away to check for fingerprints but the only prints that have appeared so far belong to our own staff.’
That figured. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I guess all you Order geeks are kind of screwed.’
Winter winced at my turn of phrase but the Ipsissimus seemed amused. ‘Why do you say that?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? Blackbeard hates witches but loves killing. He massacred an entire coven but has drawn out the process of disposing of their remains so that he can savour each and every death. But the coven’s murders are still only a means to an end. That’s why he’s stepped up his timetable for scattering their ashes – he has a date.’
I jabbed a finger at the Ipsissimus. ‘He’s coming here. His end game is to come to the Order and murder again and he’s used Clare’s coven to gain admittance. That’s why he’s had all their letters redirected. He doesn’t want their postcards as trophies, he wants to use their identities to sneak into the Order. He’s honed his skills with a group of weak, non-Order witches so he can step up and make a move against the big boys.’ I paused. ‘In other words you. It’s why he’s kept his murders so quiet. He’s saving up everything for one grand finale.’
The Ipsissimus drew in a breath. ‘That’s quite some theory.’
Maybe, but it felt right. I knew it in my bones.
‘He wouldn’t get very far,’ Maidmont protested. ‘Even if he is some kind of magical null, as you say, there are thousands of witches and only one of him. We wouldn’t need to use magic to stop him.’
‘But,’ Winter said, with a troubled expression, ‘how many would die before we got to that point?’
I sat up straight. ‘Fewer now that we have regained the element of surprise. He doesn’t know that we know what his plans are. We lost the upper hand by accident when we were in Dartmoor. We need to make damn sure we don’t lose it again.’
‘The media embargo is in place,’ the Ipsissimus said.
I shook my head. ‘Even with the best will in the world, someone will end up blabbing something. The police need to back off from the coven’s homes. Everyone needs to lay low. Then, when Blackbeard arrives for his supposed interview, we take him down before he so much as shakes anyone’s hand. We don’t need magic, we just need a baseball bat to whack him over the head with. Job done.’
A fleeting smile crossed Winter’s lips. ‘You make it sound very easy. It will be even easier if we can find out his real identity and get to him before he gets close to the Order.’
The Ipsissimus sighed. ‘The police have been looking at crematoria but there are a lot of them and they operate under very strict guidelines, as you would imagine. So far there’s been no one who meets the description of our killer. Whatever he’s been doing to burn the bodies of coven members, we haven’t found it yet.’
‘Maybe he works somewhere with industrial fires that get to the required temperatures to cremate bone,’ Winter suggested.
‘He
may do – but bear in mind that the police are trying to conduct their enquiries without tipping him off. With more time, we might get somewhere. If we broadcast a photofit of the man, we certainly would.’
I sighed. ‘But if we do that, we could well be unleashing hell. What about the mail redirection? All the coven’s post has to be going somewhere. It can’t just disappear into thin air.’
‘All the letters have been sent to a PO box. The police have discovered that it’s registered under a fake identity.’ The Ipsissimus looked grim. ‘A Mr Ripper.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘He’s not very imaginative, is he?’
Winter cocked his head. ‘You named him Blackbeard because he has a … black beard.’ Touché.
‘I’m here,’ Maidmont said helpfully, ‘because I’ve been researching nulls. I’ve managed to trace several historical figures who may or may not have been nulls in the past. It’s quite interesting, really.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘There are bloodlines we can follow?’
He slumped into his chair. ‘No. It appears to be a condition that just occurs at random. Truthfully, there haven’t been enough nulls for us to conclude any definitive evidence about them. That’s probably why we didn’t know anything about them. The trouble is that absence of evidence doesn’t equate to evidence of absence.’
We lapsed into silence. There had to be some way of working through the problem of Blackbeard’s real identity. Winter, Maidmont and the Ipsissimus were super-clever; If they thought hard enough, I was confident they’d come up with an answer.
Rather than tax my brain pointlessly when there were others around who could do it for me, I leaned back in my chair and yawned. The past few days had been considerably more energetic than I liked. If it weren’t for the creepy stuffed animals, I’d probably have asked the Ipsissimus if I could bed down for a quiet nap but, with all those dead eyes staring at me, I wouldn’t manage to sleep – and, for me, that was saying something.