Witches Incorporated

by K. E. Mills

  Heart pounding, Gerald tried to control his panicked breathing. Booming in his ears, Sir Alec’s inviolate first rule: Never ever compromise your identity.

  But if he didn’t do something… people were going to die.

  Sorry, Sir Alec. I don’t have a choice.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  But as he took a deep breath and stepped into the open doorway Errol and Rottlezinder hurled grotesque hexes in a desperate attempt to vanquish each other. Colliding, the hexes ignited in an eye-searing thaumic explosion.

  The etheretic wave trembled the factory on its foundations. Tossed him into the corridor’s far wall. His head thwacked the rotting plaster so hard he saw stars. Teeth rattling in their sockets, he dropped to his hands and knees. Dazed, giddy, he looked up—and choked on a shout.

  Errol and Rottlezinder lay crumpled on the room’s filthy floor. On a rough workbench near its shuttered window sat a clear crystal container, and inside the container—pulsing malevolently—was Rottlezinder’s next portal hex: activated and close to discharge.

  “Oh, no.”

  He could feel the hex’s matrixes coalescing… constricting… drawing in a deep thaumic breath before exhaling annihilation.

  This wasn’t like Stuttley’s. He wouldn’t survive this explosion. He had to get out. He had to get Errol and Rottlezinder out. But there wasn’t time—there wasn’t time—he could save one man, but not both. So who? Rottlezinder, the saboteur, who could unmask his employer? Or Errol, who wasn’t guilty. Not of this crime, anyway.

  Inside its crystal prison the wicked hex began to shudder. The ill-lit room washed with red light, and all around him the ether started to scream.

  Gerald threw himself into the room, grabbed hold of Errol’s ankles and dragged him into the corridor. Haythwaite was insensible, blood trickling from his nostrils, his face sweaty and chalk-white. Bending over him, Gerald grabbed Errol’s wrists, hauled him upright then let him topple over his shoulder. Staggering like an inebriate he made for the staircase at the end of the corridor.

  Not having to hide any more, he panted out the illuminato incant, his spine buckling under the strain of running with Errol on his back. He could feel the ether torquing, feel Rottlezinder’s hex warping and distorting its delicate fabric.

  Down the stairs, three treads at a time, sobbing for air, sobbing for speed, punishing his bones and muscles, knowing he had scant moments… knowing he might die. That Rottlezinder would die. Another death at his door. How many more before he’d not be able to open it?

  A scream was building in his chest and throat, terror and pain and despair throttling him. Blinding him. He skidded down the final staircase, almost fell as he hit the floor, blundered across the refusescattered factory entrance towards its partially-boarded front door. He had enough wit and strength left to smash the door with a demolishing incant, then staggered through the rain of splinters into the chill night air. The illuminato floated with him like a tethered balloon.

  Five steps closer to the deserted street, Haf Rottlezinder’s portal hex exploded. Gerald felt the unravelling in the ether as the malevolence of the hex reached its destructive peak. He let his knees fold. Let himself and Errol crash to the stony, brick-strewn ground, bright lights of pain bursting behind his closed eyes. Trapped air escaped his lungs in an agonised grunt. He managed to reach for a warding incant, managed to raise it partway…

  … and then the shock wave from Rottlezinder’s detonated hex rolled over them. Gerald folded himself across Errol, wrapped his arms round his head and held his breath.

  Going to die now. We’re going to die.

  Great booming echoes of sound, loud enough to hurt his eardrums. A silent shrieking of thaumic energies, released. The thud and clatter and deadly rainfall of debris, plaster and brickwork and tiles and tin. The retching stink of overheated thaumicles, of scorched ether, of burning wood. The grinding, groaning collapse of the ruined boot factory.

  After a little while, Gerald sat up. Everything hurt, but he wasn’t dead. Errol wasn’t dead either, he was twitching and moaning. He had cuts on his face and a swelling bruise on his forehead. His shamelessly expensive black cashmere overcoat was ruined.

  Faintly, in the distance, the sound of sirens, wailing.

  “Right,” he said, and was surprised to hear that his voice still worked. “Probably it’d be a good idea to make ourselves scarce.”

  Groaning, Errol opened his eyes. Blinked into the illuminato’s faint light. “What the hell? Dunwoody, is that you?”

  Bugger. “No, Errol, it’s your fairy godfather. Can you stand? We’ve got to leave before the authorities arrive.”

  “Dunwoody, what are you doing here?” said Errol, sounding querulous. “I was—I was—” His confused expression cleared, and he wrenched himself upright on a sharp gasp of pain. “Haf. I came to see Haf—where the hell is he, we were fighting, he—”

  Gerald grabbed Errol’s shoulder. “Haf Rottlezinder’s dead, Errol. He went up with the factory. Now come on. We have to go.”

  Shrugging free, Errol got his feet under him and managed to stand. Swaying, he looked at the charred and smoking remains of the abandoned boot factory, then turned. “What the hell? Did you do this, Dun-woody? Did you kill Haf?”

  Oh lord. Painfully Gerald pushed to his feet. “No. He killed himself. Errol—”

  Errol took a step back. “How did you get here? Did you follow me? What’s going on? What are you—”

  “I can’t tell you,” he said. The sirens were inconveniently close now. “Errol, listen, there’s no time, we have to—”

  Stepping back again, Errol nearly tripped on a twisted section of guttering. “You get the hell away from me, Dunwoody. I don’t know what you’re up to but I’ve had more than enough of you. I’ll see you’re decertified for this. I’ll see you back in your family tailor shop by the end of the week. That’s if I don’t see you in prison first—and if I can, I will. You’re a bloody menace. You always were. You must’ve bribed someone to get your Third Grade credentials, and I promise you this, too—I’ll find out who it was. I’ll see them in a prison cell beside you, I’ll—”

  Gerald let Errol’s ravings wash over him. Took a deep breath, feeling his battered flesh and bones protest.

  He’ll never be reasonable. He won’t let me explain. And anyway, I can’t. Not without telling him the truth.

  “Errol,” he said quietly.

  Errol ignored him, still ranting.

  “Errol!” he said, and snapped his fingers in Errol’s face. Recited a new incant under his breath. One word to trigger it. Just one word. The incant itself was a little more… complicated. A lot more treacherous. In anyone else’s hands, internationally illegal. Gleaned, he’d been told, from an obscure proscribed text. Turned out it was closely related to the hex Lional had used on him to ensure his obedience. But that was all right, apparently. He was a janitor so he could be trusted with it. They only had to worry about bad people using that kind of thaumaturgy.

  He hadn’t wanted to learn the incant. Hated knowing it existed. Couldn’t stand the idea of one day having to use it. Not after his first-hand experience with its effects.

  “For emergencies only,” said Sir Alec. “Most agents never have to resort to the docilianti. I understand your concerns, Mister Dunwoody, but you are going to learn it. After all, isn’t it better to be safe than sorry?”

  “Yeah? Well now I’m both,” Gerald muttered to the still-agitated ether. “And for the record, Sir Alec? I think this is wrong.”

  His free will thaumaturgically suspended, hexed from man to compliant puppet, Errol Haythwaite smiled a vacant smile.

  Gerald took him by the elbow and tugged. “I’m sorry, Errol. I really am.” Then he sighed. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “More tea, Your Highness?” said Eudora Telford, hopefully brandishing the pot. It was covered in a badly-knitted puce and mustard yellow cosy, with a bobble on top.

  Melissande shook her head. One more mou
thful of tea and her bladder was going to explode. “No, thank you, Miss Telford.”

  Eudora Telford’s face fell. “Oh.” Then she brightened. “Then perhaps another macaroon?”

  Saint Snodgrass save her. Another crumb of Eudora Telford’s macaroons and the chair she was sitting on was going to collapse. They were so lumpen they could easily be used to weight sacks full of unwanted kittens, for the drowning thereof. Or scuttle an entire fleet of the Ottosland Navy’s battleships.

  If I end up having to send her to visit Rupert he will never, ever, in a million years forgive me. No wonder she’s never been in contention for the Golden Whisk. She wouldn’t be considered for an old tin teaspoon. Not even if it was the consolation prize and she was the only contestant!

  Realising that silence was another rejection, Eudora Telford took a step back.

  “I’d love another macaroon, Miss Telford,” said Bibbie, as the end of the wretched woman’s nose turned an emotional pink. “I can eat anything.”

  “And never gain an ounce,” Melissande added quickly. “Alas, if I could only say the same.”

  “Oh,” said Miss Telford, marginally cheered. “Yes. Well.” She put down the teapot and offered the plate of macaroons to Bibbie. “Have as many as you like, Miss Markham. It’s a great honour for my little cakes to win the acclaim of Antigone Markham’s great-niece.”

  As Bibbie got in some practice on her skills at deception, praising Eudora Telford’s dreadful macaroons, Melissande stared out of the horribly knick-knacked parlour window. Still no sign of Reg. Where was the dratted bird? More than an hour they’d been stuck here with Eudora, listening to her prattle on and on and on, and all she had to show for it was indigestion, a full bladder, and the sinking feeling there was no way she could extricate Rupert from a life-threatening encounter with the silly woman’s horrendous cooking.

  Oh dear. Nature could not be ignored a moment longer. She leapt up. “I’m so sorry, Miss Telford. Might you excuse me to the—the powder room?”

  Eudora Telford’s plump cheeks coloured. “Why certainly, Your Highness. Let me show you—”

  “No, no, just point me in the right direction,” she said. “I don’t want to put you to trouble. Besides, now that we’ve heard all about your exciting life in the Guild, I’m sure there are some stirring tales of Antigone Markham my colleague’s just dying to share with you.”

  “Oh!” said Eudora Telford, hands clasped to her bosom. “Oh, Miss Markham, would you? I didn’t like to ask… I didn’t want to—to thrust myself forward—but I must confess to you, Antigone Markham has been a lifelong heroine of mine. Any story you could share—any snippet of information to shed light on her illustrious career…”

  Melissande winced as Bibbie shot her a look that would’ve scalded a burned cake tin clean. But the smile she gave Eudora was as sweet as plum pie. “Well, I think I can oblige you, Miss Telford. Only you must promise never to breathe a word to another soul. Antigone never liked to boast, you know.”

  Eudora Telford dropped to the edge of the sofa, which was antimacassared to within an inch of its upholstery. “Not a word… not a syllable… I swear it, Miss Markham.” Then, remembering, she looked up. “Through the parlour door, Your Highness, turn right, up the little staircase, second door on your left.”

  Melissande smiled. “Thank you, Miss Telford.”

  Coming back downstairs again afterwards, half-an-ear tuned to Bibbie’s enthusiastic retelling of some notorious Pastry Guild scandal of the past, she caught sight of Eudora Telford’s reticule on the hall stand… and stopped. The most appalling thought had occurred.

  Upon their return to Miss Telford’s bungalow, the sad little woman had begged them to come indoors to partake of tea and cakes and perhaps a little conversation. Of course she and Bibbie agreed. Not only did they need to find out what Eudora had been up to in South Ott, there was also the danger she might think better of abandoning her errand for Permelia Wycliffe and call another cab to go back there… where all she could do was get herself in terrible trouble.

  So they’d accompanied Eudora Telford into her little home, and paid for their dedication with ghastly tea and worse cakes. Upon entering her residence, Eudora placed her reticule on the hall stand… and clearly hadn’t gone back to it since.

  Like Boris at a mouse hole, Melissande stared at the fussily beaded purse.

  I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. It would be dreadfully uncivil. A brute violation of the laws of decent society, common courtesy and the debt one owes one’s hostess.

  On the other hand, she was one third of Witches Inc. An investigator of the unusual and the odd. And after Lional she had sworn a solemn, private oath never to shirk a difficult duty again.

  Bugger it.

  She snatched up Eudora Telford’s reticule, loosened its drawstrings and stuck her hand inside. Her fingers closed around a soft pouch, which felt heavy and full of suspiciously small, hard items.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the almost-closed parlour door. Bibbie was still regaling Eudora with saucy Guild stories. Keeping her spellbound. Good girl, Bibs. Don’t run out of inspiration now, whatever you do. Holding her breath she pulled the pouch out of Eudora’s reticule, loosened its drawstrings and looked inside.

  Gemstones flashed in the hall’s mellow lamplight: diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds. Enough jewels for a king’s ransom, surely.

  Good grief. Where did Permelia Wycliffe get her hands on these?

  She fished in the reticule again, and this time came up with a folded scrap of paper. Heart racing, she unfolded it.

  Haf Rottlezinder. The old boot factory, Laceup Lane, South Ott. After dark. Enter from Button Street. Approach only on foot.

  The last instruction was heavily underlined. The entire note was written in Permelia Wycliffe’s unembellished hand.

  Melissande stared at it, horrified. So Permelia was mixed up with the portal saboteur. But how? Why? She couldn’t be the one behind the attacks, could she? It had to be her horrible brother Ambrose, didn’t it?

  Or am I letting Lional get in the way? Am I making the fatal mistake of assuming that because Ambrose is horrible it also follows that he’s evil?

  Surely, as an intelligent woman, an investigator, a staunch advocate of women’s suffrage, she had to accept the possibility that Permelia Wycliffe was the mastermind behind the portal sabotage? That somehow she’d suborned Errol Haythwaite to her cause and used him as a conduit between herself and Haf Rottlezinder? After all, she did love—excessively—the company her father had built. And no-one could deny that Permelia was ambitious, and ruthless.

  Or it could be both of them, Permelia and Ambrose. They might not care for each other the way she and Rupert cared, but that didn’t mean they’d not join forces to save the family business from bankruptcy and ruin. If politics made strange bed-fellows, money had the power to join enemies at the hip.

  Rats. I really don’t want Permelia to be guilty. I want it to be Ambrose, because he’s such an old frog. But I have to face facts: the note. The gemstones. Eudora Telford. One way or another, Permelia’s involved.

  With another glance at the not-quite-closed parlour door, heart pounding harder than ever, Melissande stuffed the note and the gemstones back inside Eudora Telford’s reticule and replaced it on the hall stand exactly as she’d found it.

  Then she took a deep breath, poked a stray hairpin into her bun and sailed back into the parlour as though nothing whatsoever out of the ordinary had just occurred.

  “—and that,” Bibbie was saying, “is the true story of what happened at the Coconut Cookoff of 1884. But I warn you, Miss Telford, you did not hear it from me.”

  Eudora Telford clapped her hands together, delighted. “Oh, Miss Markham, I shall never breathe a word, I promise. Not even to Permelia, and she is my dearest bosom friend, you know.”

  Melissande cleared her throat. “Miss Telford, it’s been truly delightful having this wonderful opportunity to get to know you better.
His Majesty is going to be so excited when I tell him about this charming interlude. I’m sure he won’t know what to do with himself until you and he meet in person.” She flicked a glance at Bibbie. “But I’m afraid we’ll have to leave you now. It’s getting rather late, and there’s something we have to tidy up back at the agency.”

  “Oh,” said Eudora Telford, woeful again. “Yes, of course, Your Highness. You’ve been too gracious. Too kind.”

  “And speaking of Miss Wycliffe,” she added, “we’ve not forgotten the errand you were to perform on her behalf this evening.”

  Eudora Telford blushed. “You know?”

  “We guessed, Eudora,” she said gently. “I can’t imagine there’s anyone else for whom you’d have braved the streets of South Ott.”

  “Please, Your Highness,” Eudora whispered. “You mustn’t tell a soul. I promised Permelia I’d take her secret to my grave.” She sobbed. “Just as I promised I’d help her, but I haven’t. I’ve let her down.”

  “No, you haven’t,” said Melissande. “Miss Markham and I shall return tomorrow morning, promptly at ten, and escort you back to South Ott, so you can keep your word to Permelia.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t impose, Your Highness,” gasped Eudora. “I couldn’t possibly—”

  “Oh, but we insist, Miss Telford,” said Bibbie, smoothly taking her cue. “It’s the least we can do. Besides, I have so many more stories about Antigone to tell you.”

  Flustered and flattered, Eudora Telford surrendered. “Well, as long as you don’t consider it a dreadful inconvenience. Only, the thing is—if you’d not mind—” Her blush deepened. “You must promise not to mention it,” she said beseechingly. “Permelia would be so displeased with me if she were to discover—”

  “Miss Telford,” said Melissande, “we shan’t breathe a word. The last thing we want is for Permelia Wycliffe to know that we know anything about your errand to South Ott.”

  “Oh thank you,” said Eudora Telford, and showed them out with a fervent promise to be ready for them again in the morning.