‘Just some meat,’ Jazz replied.
Frank took a fistful of something pink, shoved it into his gob, and returned a cockeyed grin. Stronge plucked a piece from the box and held it between her forefinger and thumb like she was desperately wanting for a pair of tongs.
‘What kind of meat?’ she asked.
I leant over and whispered in her ear, ‘Brain meat.’
With a dry heave, Stronge flicked the offending article across the room and it struck the forehead of a ventriloquist’s dummy. It stayed glued there, and would remain that way for years to come.
‘Why do you have a box of brain bits?’ she asked, squeezing an entire tube of sanitiser gel into her hand and rubbing her palms together like Lady Macbeth after a spirited spot of murder.
‘Don’t be such a prude,’ I said. ‘It’s just cow brain.’ I tossed a look to Jazz. ‘ It is cow brain, right?’
It was, and Frank needed it. Since we joined forces I’d discovered that, as well as providing sustenance, ingesting cerebral matter helped him recover from damage. Case in point, it was fixing his head injury up a treat. With each bite of brain meat, his nose got a little straighter, a little less bruised. By the time he’d finished his meal, our hooters were pretty much a matching pair.
Stronge turned my way. ‘Okay, I’m going to ask you to explain what we’re doing here.’
‘Jazz here is an expert in all things Uncanny. I come here when something stumps me, or I need her to job me together a magical knick-knack.’
‘Job together a knick-knack?’ Jazz parrotted, her voice hiked high and loud. ‘I’m a magical artificer who produces high-grade enchanted artefacts, not your bloody gadget lackey.’
‘Sure, sure. Anyway, I’m hoping you can tell me what this little bugger is so we can figure out what the bloke we’re chasing is made of.’
Jazz took a long, cleansing breath, located a magnifying glass from a drawer, and studied the creature buzzing about inside the whiskey bottle.
‘The killer left it at the crime scene,’ Stronge explained. ‘So what is he? Some kind of demon?’
‘It’s always a bloody demon, isn’t it?’ I chimed.
Since the London Coven’s wards fell a few years back, infernal invaders were forever breaching the walls and slipping into our realm. It was up to people like me to make sure they received a hostile reception.
‘How long have you been chasing this killer?’ asked Jazz, placing the magnifying glass back in its drawer.
‘A while,’ I replied.
‘Fletcher, I have here the most detailed bestiaries in all of the Uncanny Kingdom. If you needed to query an unknown creature’s provenance, why didn’t you come to me earlier?’
‘Because I’m an idiot?’
‘You’ll get no argument from me there.’
Frank nodded in agreement.
‘Oi!’ I said, giving him a dig in the shoulder. ‘Traitor.’
Stronge rapped a knuckle on the shop counter, snapping us all to attention. ‘How about we get what we came here for before someone else gets shot, eh?’
‘Shot?’ said Jazz, surprised.
‘In the head.’
‘That is strange.’ She seemed thrown. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you’ve learned so far?’
I got the ball rolling. ‘Here’s what we know: he’s the colour of the cookie monster, but he covers it with flesh-coloured makeup—’
Stronge interjected. ‘We don’t use “flesh-coloured” to describe pink makeup anymore.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because flesh comes in lots of colours.’
Now it was my turn to pinch the bridge of my nose. ‘Christ Almighty, you sound just like Shift. No wonder she likes you so much.’
‘Please can the pair of you stop prattling and get back to the point?’ Jazz insisted.
I gave her everything else we had on the perp: how he was into a designer drug called ironclad, how he could turn invisible, how he lived in an indoor forest that featured some sort of life-regenerating cocoon. ‘That enough for you to go on?’
She considered the evidence. ‘I have some questions that should help me reach my verdict.’
‘Shoooot,’ said Frank.
I’d been subjecting my partner to a lot of old detective pictures—the kind that featured men in trench coats trudging through rain-slick streets to the sound of a plaintive saxophone—and apparently, he’d started to absorb the lingo.
Jazz gave him a pat on the head then turned her attention back to me. ‘You mentioned that he was living indoors. Did you happen to find anything unusual there?’
‘Besides a magic forest, you mean?’
Stronge had more patience. ‘He had a sweet tooth, at least going by the contents of his fridge.’
That caught Jazz’s interest. ‘What are we talking? Marzipan? Custard tarts? Honey cakes?’
‘Something like that, only a bit less medieval.’
‘I see. One last question: was this killer abnormally good-looking?’
‘I don’t know if I’d say abnormally good-looking,’ I cut in.
Stronge side-eyed me. ‘Are you serious? You could have cooked a Pot Noodle on him, he was so hot.’
‘Come on. He was no better looking than I am,’ I insisted.
Kat shook her head. Jazz, too. Even Frank was on their side, licking his finger and making a hissing noise.
‘Can you please just tell us what we’re dealing with?’ I asked Jazz, my patience beyond thin.
‘Let me see… you’re looking for a blue-skinned man who lives in a magic forest, has a chronic sweet tooth, and is supernaturally handsome. I think the answer is pretty obvious, don’t you?’
The look on my face told her it wasn’t.
She sighed. ‘It’s not a demon, I can tell you that.’
‘Then what?’ asked Stronge.
Jazz peered at us over her spectacles. ‘I’d say your killer is a fairy.’
Chapter Fourteen: Beast Infection
‘He’s a what?’ I was laughing so hard that nothing was coming out of my mouth anymore. If I was the kind of person who needed to breathe, I’d have been in real trouble.
‘A fairy,’ Jazz Hands repeated, her expression hard and serious.
‘A fairy? As in the little flying bastards that live in the sewer? Oh, that is rich.’
Not wanting to feel left out, Frank joined in, honking away like a mad seal.
‘No,’ she retorted, shutting us both up. ‘I’m talking about an Arcadian. Thoroughbred fae folk. Sewer fairies are rabid daschunds by comparison.’
From beneath the counter she produced a leather-bound tome and blew a coating of grime from its cover. Unfortunately, she neglected to turn away from Stronge as she did so, leaving her choking on a swirling grey blur of dust.
The tome landed on the counter top with a resounding bam. I read the cover, which was embossed with the words, The Modern Encyclopaedia of Faeries and Otherkin.
I snapped my fingers. ‘Damn. This was the next book on my To Be Read pile, I swear.’
Stronge flicked through the first few yellowed pages, each packed with a spidery scrawl that looked as if it had been penned with a feather quill. There was no telling when the book had been written, but I was sure of one thing: the “Modern” in its title had expired a long time ago.
‘Not exactly a beach read, is it?’ Stronge remarked. ‘Any chance you can just tell me what an Arcadian is?’
‘I suppose I can’t blame you for not knowing,’ said Jazz. ‘Unlike vampires and zombies, fairies don’t have their own TV show. Not that I’m aware of, anyway.’
I gave Stronge what I knew. ‘The Arcadians are fae folk, enigmatic and fickle beings who traffic in chaos; supernatural royalty who arrived here back when this place was called Albion.’
‘Arrived?’
‘Yeah. The stories say they come from another place, a wide-open wonderland called Arcadia, hence the name.’
‘If it’s such a wonderland, what ar
e they doing in this shithole city?’ asked Stronge.
‘Good question, particularly seeing as they haven’t set foot in our realm for hundreds of years.’ I threw it out to Jazz. ‘So go on, clever clogs, why would an Arcadian show up in London now? So he can shoot a prostitute and leave a glow bug behind?’
‘This isn’t a “glow bug”,’ she replied, giving the top of the whiskey bottle a tap and waking up its prisoner. ‘This is a will-o’-the-wisp.’
With a clumsy swipe, Frank took up the bottle and pressed a milky eyeball to it, studying the creature inside.
‘Again,’ said Stronge, seeking swift clarity, ‘what’s a will-o’-the-wisp?’
‘Elemental spirits that buzz about in marshes,’ I explained.
‘Entirely wrong,’ said Jazz. ‘Will-o’-the-wisps, or hinkypunks as they’re sometimes known, are quite unlike the description you so obviously read on Wikipedia. Though they are known to lead prey off of their intended path and into treacherous ground, the meaning is a metaphorical one.’
‘How’s that?’ asked Stronge.
A glint played in Jazz’s eye. She was always at her happiest playing teacher. ‘Instead of physically leading their victims astray, the wisp does so by attaching itself to their person and making them a host. With that accomplished, the wisp then implants the suggestion in the host’s mind that they seek out a partner who is similarly infested. Thus the wisp is able to reproduce.’
‘You’re saying they’re parasites?’ Stronge cut in.
‘Yes. Or, more precisely, an STD.’
‘Ugggghh,’ spat Frank, and flicked the bottle across the shop.
‘Careful,’ cried Jazz, lifting a section of the counter and swinging it up on its hinges. Moving at surprising speed, she located the still-intact bottle and scooped it off the floor.
‘Hang about,’ I said, ‘are you telling me will-o’-the-wisps live in a fairy’s short and curlies?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’
‘Then why are you so worried about saving the dirty little bastard?’
She gave me a look that was saltier than a mermaid’s kiss. ‘Because it’s a living creature, but also because it can help you.’
‘Help me how?’ I asked, and saw my incredulous expression reflected twice in the lenses of her spectacles. ‘What possible use could I have for fairy crabs?’
‘The will-o’-the-wisp is attracted to magic like a moth to flame,’ she explained.
‘But there’s magic in just about everything, isn’t there?’ said Stronge.
‘She’s a quick student, this one,’ said Jazz, impressed. ‘Yes, there’s magic in all natural things, but not fae magic.’
She opened a display case and fished out a jar of loaded dice. Having tipped its contents into a pocket of her frumpy jumper, she twisted the lid from the whiskey bottle and transferred the will-o’-the-wisp into the empty container.
‘Pay attention,’ she said, and the three of us gathered around to see what we were missing.
With more room to buzz about in, it was obvious that the wisp’s movements weren’t as aimless as they first appeared. It was clear now that the creature was straining in a particular direction.
‘What’s it doing?’ I asked.
‘The wisp is attracted to the fae whose… nest it took residence in,’ Jazz replied.
‘That’s another thing I don’t get. How come the Arcadian didn’t know he was lugging this thing around between his legs? I mean, look at it, all lit up like a Christmas tree.’
‘The wisp doesn’t glow when it’s on its host. It only does that to ward off predators. Anyway, you’re missing the point here.’
‘What point?’
‘My God, Fletcher, it’s not exactly four-dimensional chess.’
Stronge got there before I could. ‘It’s a homing device.’
‘A very quick student,’ said Jazz, doubly impressed.
The penny dropped. ‘You’re saying we can use the wisp as a compass to find the killer?’
‘Very good,’ she replied, clapping slowly. ‘Have yourself a participation trophy.’
Jazz handed Stronge the jar as if hers were the safer hands. Okay, so technically they were, given that mine were ethereal, but it still got my goat.
‘Okay, let’s go,’ said Stronge.
‘Before we do that, there’s something else I came for,’ I said. ‘My powers are playing up and I need to know why.’
‘Can you be more specific?’ Jazz asked with all the conviction she could muster.
‘Translocation: that’s the first thing giving me gyp. The other one is possession. Well, except when it comes to old blue lips here—I can climb into his bonce no problem.’
‘Braaaaiiiins,’ said Frank, who always knew when he was being talked about.
‘So you’re able to possess your better half here but no one else?’ said Jazz, drumming a finger against her chin. ‘Interesting.’
‘Interesting how? Interesting I’m dying? Is that it?’
Was my soul starting to degrade? Had I spent so long stuck in this limbo land that I was finally beginning to fade away?
Jazz returned to her station behind the counter and parked her derriere on the well-polished seat of her stool. ‘Tell me, how do you feel when you spend time apart from Frank?’
It wasn’t a question I anticipated, but I answered it as honestly as I could. ‘It’s weird; I get sweaty when I spend too long inside Frank’s head, but I miss him when we spend too long apart. He’s like a duvet that’s too warm on you, but when you throw it off, you get cold.’
‘Aww,’ said Stronge, one hand flat on her clavicle. ‘You know what that is? Separation anxiety.’
I ignored her and returned to Jazz. ‘So what’s the verdict? How stuffed am I?’
She measured her words carefully. ‘You need to think of this less like a handicap and more like an evolution.’
‘You what?’ Translocation and possession were two very important weapons in my arsenal. How could losing them possibly be a benefit?
Jazz resumed her lecture. ‘How did it feel before, possessing strangers?’
‘Depended on the person. Sometimes it wasn’t too hard, other times it was a fight.’
‘And how does it feel possessing Frank?’
I looked to my partner, who also seemed keen to hear my answer.
‘I don’t know if I’d even call it that. With Frank it’s more like merging. Like stepping into an old pair of slippers.’
Some might have taken umbrage at being compared to a set of well-worn footwear, but not Frank. He looked on with unabashed pride.
‘And when I connect with him I stay that way. Before I was on the clock; a couple of hours and I’d get catapulted out of whatever body I was wearing. Now I can do three times that. Maybe more. And I don’t have to wait ages before I get back in the saddle.’
Plus, when I combined with Frank, I got to take advantage of his freakish strength, which put a real horseshoe in my glove.
‘Sounds to me like you and Frank make a good team,’ said Jazz.
‘Yeah, we do, but that’s not the point. The point is, I’m down two powers, and I could really use them right now.’
‘You might want to make peace with the possibility that those powers aren’t coming back.’
Panic swelled inside of me, sticking to my ribs. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying you’ve merged with Frank so many times now that the pair of you are becoming soul-bonded. Together, you constitute a powerful force, but the bond you share comes with certain sacrifices.’
‘You’re telling me I can never possess anyone else? Not ever?’
‘Correct.’
‘Or translocate?’
‘You can catch the bus like the rest of us,’ she replied with a shrug. ‘Or walk. From the looks of it, you could use the exercise.’
I was reminded of that old saying: when God closes a door, He opens a window. Except, in my case, it’s more like He
slams the door shut on my dick and sits back laughing.
‘I’ll need my powers up and running again if I’m going to bring in that Arcadian. There has to be some way of undoing this soul bond.’ I turned to Frank. ‘Nothing personal, mate.’
Frank formed his fingers into an awkward OK sign. ‘S’allriiight.’
Jazz gathered her thoughts with a weary sigh. ‘It’s possible that something could be done to loosen the bond, but I wouldn’t pin my hopes on it.’
It wasn’t much, but it was a start. ‘So you’ll get right on that?’
‘Of course. After all, what else do I have to do besides single-handedly running a niche business in the middle of the worst economy this country has seen in decades?’
‘That’s my girl.’
Stronge injected herself back into the narrative. ‘If you two are done chit-chatting, can we please make a move?’
‘By all means,’ said Jazz. ‘But before you do…’ She opened a wall safe hidden behind a portrait of James Randi and produced an item wrapped in a square of muslin.
I thought maybe I was getting a resupply of holy nails, or perhaps another enchanted hankie for Frank to console ghosts with, but Jazz had other ideas.
‘Your Arcadian won’t come in quietly,’ she said. ‘Consider this insurance.’
I unwrapped the package and found an antique rosewood box with a keyhole in its side. I flipped the lid on the thing and found a thin brass disk set upon a spindle and punctured with a pattern of tiny holes. Laid over the disk was a steel comb covered in jagged little teeth.
‘A music box?’ I said. ‘This is meant to bring the bloke to his knees, is it? What does it play, Nickelback?’
Jazz’s eyes were a pair of harpoons. ‘Your target is a magic-user, and a proficient one at that. The tune this box produces emits a pulse of anti-magic that will dispel any arcane activity within its locality.’
‘Sort of like a magic EMP?’ said Stronge.
Jazz’s hangdog face made it clear that she had absolutely no idea what that meant, nor cared to know. ‘Once this is wound and the box is activated, the anti-magic it produces is instant. The effect is only temporary, however—the length of the song the box produces, thirty-two seconds precisely—so make good use of the time it provides you.’
Deadly Departed: A Supernatural Thriller (Fletcher & Fletcher, Paranormal Investigators Book 2) Page 9