A Familiar Sense of Dead

by E L Wilder

  Everyone has family.

  “Will I get to meet them?”

  He didn’t respond as he padded on. After they crossed another street, he finally spoke. We’re about to turn onto Common Place. Keep your wits about you, stay close, and don’t talk to anyone.

  “Common Place!” Hazel gasped. “Gammy used to talk about this street all the time!” According to Gammy, Common Place was the one must-see locale in Quark, a street where both quaint and magical beings mingled effortlessly, and where prospective shoppers could find all that Quark had to offer, from the mundane to the extraordinary.

  And as they rounded the edge of a corner building and stepped onto Common Place itself, she was not disappointed.

  Before her stretched a street lined by shops and ruled by pedestrians. Groups of shoppers shuffled about, lounged on benches or at open-air restaurants, and ducked in and out of various storefronts. It made the quirky offerings at the East Barn look downright pedestrian. There was a pet shop with a caged lizard in the display window. The creature’s eyes bulged and, as she and Clancy passed, it belched a tiny fireball. Across the street was a café called the Brewhaha and next door to it a tavern called the Hiss and Vinegar.

  And the people! While most of Quark’s architecture said middle ages, its fashion clearly said middle-aged. Hazel hadn’t seen so many fanny packs, sun visors, mom jeans, and socks with sandals since that time she spent two days on a cruise ship as part of a film promo. And while some of the denizens looked like they might actually be Baby Boomers out for a stroll, just average Joes and Janes out enjoying the fruits of retirement, just as many looked like extras from the set of a Star Wars flick.

  She passed somebody that was more insect than human, its armored skin a lemon yellow and its velour tracksuit an eggplant purple.

  A man in a Deadhead T-shirt that might have actually been dead, what with his pale and peeling complexion, flashed her a peace sign and said something that might have been “Far out,” or just as likely, “Watch out” as he nearly bumped into her.

  A pixie in a button-down shirt and vest with slits in the back to accommodate her gossamer wings strolled down the street with a swamp-colored, boil-covered man in a blazer that might have been a goblin.

  Was Common Place their destination? Clancy had mentioned going to a shop and there were certainly plenty of those on hand. But Clancy didn’t slow his pace, and they hurried past handcarts selling strange foods and stores selling MC Hammer pants and windbreakers alongside witches’ robes and pointed hats.

  Hazel and Clancy passed a crowd gathered around a wooden wagon painted red with gold and green flourishes, though it was impossible to get a good look.

  “What is that?” she asked, drawing close to the edge of the crowd.

  Nothing we need to be concerned about.

  But it was impossible to ignore the loud, sonorous voice carrying over the heads of the onlookers. “I have the cure for what ails you, be it magical or mundane. Hiccups or hexes. Jaundice or jinx. I have liniments for the gents, no nightshade for the lovely maids. Gout got you out? Try my powders and pastes. Curse got you destined for a hearse? Take a swig of Dr. Winkworth’s patented Calming Corrective. This elixir is a fixer (in a pinch a stunning mixer), ointment without disappointment, and unctions to ease your functions! Oils to cure your boils and potions for health promotions!”

  “Did Dr. Seuss start an apothecary?” she asked.

  We need to keep moving, Clancy said more firmly this time.

  “Right,” she responded, going up on tiptoe to see over the crowd. Perhaps they could return this way afterward so she could see this character in action. She knew a fellow performer when she saw one and she was curious to see him up close.

  Clancy was, however, right. It was time to go. She was turning to leave when a rancid smell, a mix of moldering laundry and rotting fish, stopped her in her tracks.

  “What is that?” asked Clancy.

  The answer came from a voice that sounded like a rock being thrown into a woodchipper. “I’d say it smells a lot like an interloper.”

  Hazel spun around and found herself face-to-face—or maybe knee-to-face—with a pair of dingy trousers. She craned her neck upward. The dingy trousers gave way to a dingy shirt and on to a dingy wad of flesh that must have, by definition, been a head, though it was the sort of head only a mother could love. Though what kind of mother that was, Hazel couldn’t say.

  She stepped back to get a better look at it. The creature was a mountain of soft flesh, pale with a hint of orange, like a sun-bleached Cheeto. A withered patch of hair hung from its head like a threadbare curtain nearly reaching a nose like a crooked wire hanger. His attire was caked with so much grime, she wondered if he had earned it graverobbing.

  Clancy’s voice drifted into her head. Careful with that one.

  “You’re not from around here,” he said. He looked back over his shoulder, smirking as if he had just landed a particularly good zinger. It was only then that she noticed he had a small entourage, a gang of diminutive men behind him. Had he not glanced back, she might not have even noticed them. But now he gave them attention, they unfolded like a chain of sadistic paper dolls with beady red eyes, matching red caps, the sort a medieval serf might wear, and wicked-looking meat cleavers hanging from their belts in an attire that could only be described as murder casual. They were tiny by any standard, but next to the jolly orange giant, they were almost adorable.

  “What do you think you’re doing here?” the giant demanded, his gray slug of a tongue probing at his cracked lips.

  “Shopping, just like everyone else,” she said, gesturing to the crowd, which was now turning its attention from the Dr. Seuss medicine show to the drama unfolding behind them. Hazel continued. “I’m not from around here.”

  “We know,” he said, then turned to his posse, adding, “Didn’t we know?”

  The diminutive psychos gibbered excitedly and bounced up and down on their heels.

  “I’m visiting—” Hazel explained

  No, don’t— started Clancy.

  “—from beyond the Postern.”

  The crowd collectively gasped and the little men gibbered with rabid ferocity.

  The troll sneered at her. “We don’t want your kind around here,” he said. “Your kind is the whole reason things are so broken ’round here. Every time one of you shows up, something goes wrong.”

  She gritted her teeth. She may have sucked at small talk, but she excelled at trash talk, and there were few things more satisfying than slapping down idiots who had an axe to grind. She’d dealt with her fair share of pushy producers, pushy reporters, pushy fans. People looking to get their kicks or make their name by taking down a celebrity. And if there was one thing she had never been able to do, it was back down from a fight. Her mother had always said it was her biggest strength and her biggest Achilles heel. If she ever perceived herself or friend or some other innocent to be under attack, her lizard brain phoned a direct line to her mouth and set her tongue flapping. It didn’t matter that right now the offender was twice her size and could probably drive her into the ground like a tent stake.

  “Truth be told, I came to Quark to see if it was true,” she said.

  Clancy seemed to sense where she was going with this. Careful . . .

  The troll stopped for a minute, his face going blank as he considered the statement. His entourage grew silent and stilled their fidgeting. Finally the leader spoke. “If what was true?”

  “If Quark still had its village idiot.”

  Oh now you’ve done it. A moment of silence passed where the troll just stared at her, its black wet eyes glistening in the afternoon sun. Then suddenly those eyes hardened into flakes of obsidian.

  Go, go! Clancy shouted, his words sounding in her head like a klaxon.

  Hazel didn’t have to be told a third time. She bolted into the crowd, not stopping to see if the monster or his posse followed. Even though she was a little out of shape, she found a surge of
energy.

  Up ahead Clancy bounded down the sidewalk. Did you have to do that? Trolls don’t exactly have the thickest of skins.

  “I can’t suffer a bully,” she said. “Never could. Never will. And what was with the Lollypop Guild?”

  Redcaps.

  Redcaps?

  They’re mostly restricted to the magical world, except for Scotland, where they hide in the Highlands. They used to be a murderous bunch, known for their caps, which they dyed with the blood of their victims. But now they just get their headgear factory made. Murder is murder, it turns out. And murder for fashion hasn’t aged well.

  She dared to look back over her shoulder, and she saw the troll slowly loping along, his legion of bobbleheads swarming around his feet, as much a hindrance as a help. For that she was grateful. She and Clancy had a sizeable lead.

  This way. Clancy darted down a narrow alley and Hazel followed, ignoring the stench of rotting trash and who knew what else. The alley emptied into a small side street not nearly as pretty as Common Place.

  “Now where?” she asked.

  Inside.

  “Inside?”

  We’ve arrived.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  They stood in front of a brick store, a claustrophobic slice of real estate with a bulging display window and a broad green door over which hung a faded sign reading, in old-fashioned lettering, “Once Upawn a Time.” The building’s display window was cluttered with odds-and-ends, sun-faded books, and dolls that looked like they were clawing for attention—or freedom. Or both. The visual made her shudder.

  “A pawnshop?” she asked, looking at him incredulously.

  No answer.

  Clancy sat upright, his tails resting dead upon the ground, his eyes wide. She followed his gaze to the mouth of the alley alongside the pawnshop, where a carriage was parked. It was black with “City of Quark” painted in its side in gold letters, but was otherwise featureless.

  She heard doors slamming, and then two attendants appeared from behind the carriage. Their faces made her gasp—one a mask of withered and blackened skin, like a bog mummy, the other a yellowed skull with dimples of blue light floating in its empty sockets. The bog mummy looked at Hazel and tipped its cap. “Ma’am.” His voice crinkled like a hard candy being unwrapped.

  “Who are they?” she whispered hoarsely.

  Coroners, he said.

  The two . . . things climbed into the driver’s box, flicking the reins, even though they were clearly attached to nothing. Regardless, the wagon jostled to life and started rolling off down the street.

  Clancy sprang into action, bounding toward the carriage and leaping up into the driver’s box. He landed between the two aberrations. Both creatures drew back, startled, and the bog person screeched like a fair maiden who had just spotted a mouse. Then he seemed to collect his wits. “Clancy?!” he shouted. “Well I never. You scared me half to life!

  Where are you two going? Clancy demanded.

  “To the morgue, Clancy,” said the bog person. “We have—”

  I know who you have.

  Hazel marveled. She realized that Clancy was talking to all three of them at once. Up until now, he had sent his psychic missives to Hazel and Hazel alone. She had chalked it up to Clancy’s misanthropic, hermit-like tendencies—or because the quaint, like Tyler, were deaf to telepathy. But here he was making a call on a party line. Was every Quarkian on the right frequency? She’d have to ask about that later.

  I want details, Wilhem.

  The bog person shifted in the driver’s box and cast a nervous glance at his skeletal partner. “Clancy, I don’t know if that’s a good idea. We’re here in an official capacity, and you know how Councilor Strange gets . . .”

  Lev, Clancy said, appealing to the skeleton. Remember that time Cerberus came to town and dragged you from the village green all the way to the burying grounds and back again.

  The skeleton shivered and poked at a few rough gouges in his metacarpals.

  “He still has the marks from that,” said Wilhelm.

  And who finally got that mangy beast to leave you alone, Lev?

  The skeleton nodded in concession, the lights in his sockets dimming in what, somehow, seemed like shame.

  What happened to him? Clancy asked.

  “Clancy, this seems super unorthodox,” said Wilhelm, glancing nervously up and down the street.

  “Can we see?” Hazel asked, pointing to the back of the wagon. She wasn’t sure she actually wanted to see the body, but if Clancy had brought her here to do a job, she thought she could at least do her part to ask the difficult questions. And if she had to see the victim, well, she would just think of it as a prop. Special effects and makeup. She had appeared on a few CSI dramas in her time.

  “And who is she?” asked Wilhelm, almost offended at the bold question.

  “I can answer for myself,” said Hazel. “I’m Hazel Bennett. So how about it? Will you let us back there? Come on, Lev. Wilhelm. For Clancy’s sake. Let an old friend say goodbye.”

  Lev shook his head.

  “The Council has already assigned a Wand to the case,” said Wilhelm. “Alestranos. He did a cursory sweep of the scene before we went in. If we let you see him, it could be considered compromising evidence.”

  He’s not evidence, Wilhelm. He’s Silas. And you know full well Circe Strange is just going to do the bare minimum. She won’t spare a lick of the Council’s resources for this. It’ll be a farce at best. If we don’t look into it, who will?

  Lev and Wilhelm looked at each other with severe consternation. Lev simply shrugged, his shoulder bones clacking for the effort.

  Wilhelm shook his head, but only in disbelief. “For the record, this is super sketchy.”

  He hopped down from the driver’s box and pulled the ring of keys from his belt. “This never happened,” he said as he unlocked the wagon and pulled the doors open.

  A pine box sat inside.

  “May I?” Hazel asked. She jumped in without waiting for permission.

  Now it was Clancy’s turned to balk. What are you doing, Hazel?

  “What you brought me here for. You can wait out there if you want.” She tried to project more confidence than she felt. What exactly was she planning on doing in here? She had no idea. Maybe she would find inspiration once she peeked inside the box.

  Clancy turned a few nervous circles but finally jumped into the wagon after her.

  Hazel put her hand on the lid, took a deep breath and opened the box. Inside rested what, in the dimish light, looked like a mummy fully wrapped in linen. Linen? Wait, no, not linen. Webbing. Hazel shuddered and stepped back, fighting a violent gag reflex.

  “She got a weak stomach for this sort of thing?” asked Wilhelm.

  She was fairly certain that if she opened her mouth to answer, she might unleash whatever remained of Bretta’s peppermint cannoli. She wanted to say it wasn’t the body, rather it was the prospect of a spider big enough—or worse of tiny spiders numerous enough—to cocoon a grown man from head to toe.

  Clancy seemed just as unsettled by the sight. He hissed and arched his back. Is this some sort of sick joke?

  “No no!” protested Wilhelm. “Siv found him like that, just hanging from the ceiling in the back room. Gave me the willies when I saw it . . .”

  There was a clatter of noise outside the wagon, and suddenly Wilhelm pushed the doors nearly shut, leaving on a sliver of light. The prospect of being trapped in the wagon with the cocooned dead man sent her into a panic and she almost karate-kicked the door open, but something she heard outside made her pause. It was an abrasive voice saying something she couldn’t quite make out, followed by a bubbling of high-pitched titters.

  The troll and his redcaps, said Clancy. Try to keep a low profile this time.

  She nodded, but still, she crept to the double doors and peered out through the crack. Sure enough, the lumbering troll and his merry band of murderers stood outside.

  “So have you see
n ’em?” demanded the troll.

  “I sure have,” said Wilhelm. Hazel’s breath caught in her throat. She had been pretty pushy with Wilhelm and now, it seemed, he was going to rat her out.

  “Get ready to run for it,” she whispered to Clancy.

  Stay away from there. She nodded but stayed where she was, which was about as far away from the web-wrapped corpse as possible.

  “They ran that way,” said Wilhem, pointing down the street. “I thought they were up to no good, but who was I to interrupt? Just trying to do my job here.”

  “Stick around a bit longer,” growled the troll. “We might have more work for you.” With that, he loped off in the direction Wilhelm had pointed, moving with an awkward and uneven gait, slow despite the length of his stride. His entourage followed in an undulating swarm of red cloth.

  As soon as they were out of sight, Hazel pushed the doors open and hopped to the cobblestones, Clancy hot on her heels.

  “I think that’s long enough of a look,” said Wilhelm, glancing nervously up and down the street. “If I weren’t already dead, I think that would have given me a heart attack.”

  Thanks for covering for us, said Clancy. We seem to have drawn the wrong kind of attention already.

  “Yeah,” retorted Wilhelm. “Now we’re even. But if I end up on the wrong side of Oddlump, you’ll be hearing from me.”

  Wilhelm and Lev climbed back into the driver’s box, cracked the reins, and rode off down the street. Clancy watched until the wagon was out of sight.

  “Spiders,” she said, shivering as the word passed her lips. “I didn’t know that spiders would be involved. Is this common in Quark? Death by spider? Does that even constitute murder? I think you made a mistake in bringing me here. You were right. Gammy was right. I’m not ready for Quark.”

  You’re ready so long as we stick together.

  “This is a lot to process,” she said. “Merlin and strange lights in the forest and angry trolls and undead municipal workers. I have an open mind—I mean I lived in LA for god’s sake—but this is stretching my limits. I’m starting to see how Charlie felt when I told her I was a witch.”