by Ian Richards
Mr. Krook and Mr. Kepler both picked up on the unpleasant odor clinging to Firefox that morning as soon as he swept into the room.
Like old churches, Kepler thought.
Like dead things, Krook determined.
‘The witches failed me.’ Firefox lifted one of the animal skulls from his desk and hurled it against the wall. ‘All that work. Luring the Black Magician to the auction. Setting the most intricate of traps. It was for nothing.’
‘What next?’ Kepler said. ‘Do you want us to take care of it?’
Firefox shook his head. ‘No. I’ll use alternative methods. Granted, these methods will be more extreme than the witches, and far more unpleasant, but such is life. If Mr. Martell hadn’t chosen to make things difficult for us then he wouldn’t find himself facing such unpleasantries.’
The vague allusions. The smell of corpses.
Krook and Kepler exchanged glances.
The Rag-and-Bone men. It must be.
Interesting, Krook thought, not without some degree of admiration. He really is in a bad mood.
Kepler took a more considered view. First the Thalaki, he thought, and now this. Kidnapping the Black Magician isn’t enough for him. He wants to show off. He wants to impress his quarry. But why? For what purpose?
‘Still,’ Firefox continued, green eyes sparkling, ‘enough about my problems. What about you? What was it you wished to speak to me about?’
There was a momentary pause before Mr. Krook answered him.
‘The robbery,’ he said. ‘The one you helped us with. Our reward for tracking down the Black Magician.’
‘What of it?’
‘It was a disaster,' Kepler snarled. 'We made it out of there with next to nothing.’
This seemed to catch Firefox by surprise. 'Really?' He raised an eyebrow.
‘There was this boy, see,’ Mr. Krook continued. ‘The Black Magician’s nephew. He released some poltergeists and ruined everything. I couldn’t do a thing. I was stuck spinning around on the ceiling like a top.’
Mr. Krook realized that Firefox was grinning at him. He swallowed his rage.
‘Put simply,’ Kepler snapped, ‘we had a deal, Mr. Firefox. We would provide you with someone who could break your curse—’
‘Mr. Martell.’
‘Mr. Martell, correct. And in exchange you would assist us in pulling off our heist. Unfortunately your side of the bargain has not been kept.’
‘Haroo!’ Firefox laughed. ‘Now we come to it. My side of the bargain hasn't been kept.’
‘That's correct.’
‘Gentlemen, you can't blame me for your own incompetence. Besides, you promised me the Black Magician and I can't see him anywhere around here, can you?'
‘But the deal—’
‘Listen,' Firefox smiled, 'if it's riches you want, then it is riches you shall have. Don’t worry about one measly little robbery that went wrong. I’ll fix it so you can pull off heists that put last night to shame. How would you like to walk out of the Tower London with the Crown Jewels? Or stroll into the world’s biggest casino only to have every machine you play pour out the jackpot? I can do all these things for you, gentlemen, and I shall. As soon as I am free.’
Both Mr. Kepler and Mr. Krook had to admit that this sounded good to them. Almost at once their memories of the auction house robbery began to slip away, replaced instead by visions of slot-machines spewing torrents of gold coins, sparkling gems in crystal cases, bundles of money packed tightly into leather suitcases.
Whether or not this sleepy desire to let go of the night before came from Firefox or from the house itself, neither of them could be sure.
‘What about the boy?’ Mr. Krook said eventually, shaking away the cobwebs. ‘Martell’s brat. We can’t let him get away with mugging us off like that. We have to get revenge. We have to kill him.'
Sighing, Firefox took himself over to the window and peered out at the dreary morning in front of him. From here it was impossible to see anything beyond the mist: perhaps the dark hint of a forest in the distance—a row of skeletal trees—some rising hedgerow. The cold glass offered back his reflection, that cruel, sharp-angled face. Those deep green eyes. For several moments he considered the matter carefully. Then he turned back to them.
‘The boy is yours. Do with him as you please.’ He saw the delight in the dwarf’s eyes. ‘The girl, too. Cook them on a barbecue for all I care.’
Mr. Krook moved to offer his thanks, but Firefox raised a finger, silencing him.
‘But,’ he said, ‘I don’t want you getting in the way of things while the Black Magician is still to be dealt with. In this instance, Mr. Krook, you will have to be patient. You will have to wait until my business is attended to first.’
He smiled, holding the moment for just long enough to instill a fragment of doubt.
‘Give it a week,’ he grinned. ‘Then gut him like a fish.’
12 - Vanessa Moves In
It was Sunday morning and like many of the shops on Dover Street, Martell’s Antiques was closed for business. Though the grandfather clock by the counter pointed its hands towards eleven o’clock there was no movement inside the shop save for the drifting dust motes. The storm that had raged so violently the night before had blown itself out. Now all was still. Bronzed slats of autumnal sunlight lay across the furniture. The wind-chimes hanging above the counter did not stir.
The shop was asleep.
But Joseph Martell was not.
How could he be after the drama of last night? Even now, hours removed from their escape, he still felt queasy with adrenaline, wired up on the fear still chasing through his veins. His heart was beating a few tics too quickly for his liking, and he had the unwelcome suspicion that if he had been in slightly worse physical condition, last night could very well have been the end of him. There were always mirrors close at hand in Martell’s Antiques—big ones, small ones, ornate ones, cheap ones—but he took care to avoid locking eyes with his reflection that morning. Were he to do so he suspected that he would see a drained, haggard old fool, and that was the last thing he needed right now. He already knew how badly he had messed things up. A visual reminder wasn’t necessary.
What had he been thinking, dragging the boy off to a midnight auction? Was he that desperate to restore his reputation? That he would risk everything for the sake of a one last sale? He cursed his stupidity. Of course it had been a trap. Anastasia’s doll could never have just fallen into his lap like that. He had been played. Manipulated as easily as a crooked card game. He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t his fault—that he couldn’t have predicted such an elaborate move against him—but the excuses felt hollow and he was unable entertain them for long. This was his fault and his fault only. What made matters worse was that since sitting there in the kitchen, brooding on the matter, he had reached some frightening conclusions.
The clue was the girl who had sold him the doll in the first place. He had been so caught up in the excitement of finding one of Professor Humple’s vanished antiques that he hadn’t considered her story about a Russian great-grandparent might be false. Now, remembering everything he could about their meeting, two prescient details stood out.
The color of her hair (a fiery red) and the color of her eyes (sweet apple green, sparkling like gemstones). Both innocuous enough on their own, but when added to an elaborate conspiracy involving magical beings and mysterious antiques they pointed in a direction he found hard to ignore.
Faerie.
A land occupied by some of the most wicked and devious creatures known to humankind.
He had been in the kitchen for some time when Tony joined him. From the boy’s dark eyes he reasoned that he wasn’t the only one who had had trouble sleeping since they got back. After giving Pushkin a good morning pat on the head, Tony switched on the kettle and set about making them both a cup of tea.
‘Morning, Martell.’
‘Hello, my boy. How are you this morning?’
Tony s
hrugged. ‘Not great. How about you?’
‘The same, I suppose.’ He paused for a moment, searching for the right words. ‘Tony, I have to apologize. I should never have taken you with me last night. It was a reckless thing to do.’
The response was a tired smile. ‘Come off it, Martell. It wasn’t your fault. It was the most fun I’ve had in ages. Terrifying, yes, but we made it out alive, didn’t we?’
Steam rose from the spout of the kettle. Tony poured the boiling water into the mugs he had set out and stirred in the teabags with a spoon. A gentle clinking noise accompanied the gesture.
Martell said nothing for some time. He had expected the boy to be forgiving, to put a positive spin on things, but fun? The word rankled him. It trivialized the danger they had been in and brought up unwanted associations with Thomas, who had dived into the world of magic so completely he had never again resurfaced. To think that Tony could see this dark, dangerous world as a source of excitement was chilling. The auction had descended into chaos, they could have lost their lives. And yet he was describing it as if it were some sort of grotesque funfair ride—a rush of rattling thrills that cried out for a repeat experience.
They drank their tea in silence. The morning was brighter than it had any right to be, and as Tony lifted Pushkin onto his lap and began running his fingers through the cat’s fur, Martell pondered what they should do next. Returning to their old lives was impossible. Whoever this Firefox character was, they would hear from him again, he was sure of that. It didn’t seem likely that someone would go to such elaborate lengths to secure his services only to give up at the first setback. No, he would come calling again, Martell was sure of it. Krook and Kepler, too. He had a horrible feeling that they would be gunning for the boy after he had scuppered their robbery, in which case the best thing they could do would be to get out of London immediately. Where they would go or what they would do, he had no idea. But what was the alternative? Go back to selling dusty antiques to strangers and wait to see which of them would be picked off first?
‘You know we’re going to have to leave the shop now, Tony.’ He spoke quietly, watching for the boy’s reaction. ‘It’s not safe for us to stay here any longer.’
The response was a frown of incomprehension. That was a good sign, he thought. It marked the beginning of a return from fantasy to reality.
‘You think someone is going to try to kidnap you again?’
A pause. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. Kepler mentioned somebody called Firefox, but the name means nothing to me. Whoever he is, I suspect he’s the type of person we should try to keep as far away from as possible. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was more than adept in the use of magic.’
Tony nodded. Incomprehension was slowly giving way to understanding.
‘And if you can do magic then you can do all sorts of things, can’t you, Martell?’
‘You can.’
‘In which case he could probably find us wherever we go. All he has to do is—I don’t know, wave his wand or say some magic words or something. He’ll find out where we are in an instant.’
The boy was sharp. Martell hadn’t considered that. Of course Firefox would be able to find them. He had orchestrated a raid on a midnight auction for goodness sake. A simple finding spell would be easy for him.
‘In which case,’ Tony continued, ‘wouldn’t we better off staying here in the shop? You must have some useful antiques kicking around that we could protect ourselves with. And The Gnarled Wand is just across the street, perhaps we could borrow a couple of books on magic and see if there’s anything in there about this Firefox bloke?’
Astonishing. What had started out as a plan to flee as far away from all things magical as possible had transformed into not going anywhere at all and actively reading up on the occult. He had to admire the boy. As much as he disliked the idea of staying put, there was a certain logic to the idea. What if they got Ebenezer to cover the shop in protective charms? What if he transformed his office in the basement into a panic room where they could lock themselves away should Mr. Krook and Mr. Kepler decide to pay them a visit?
He sensed a presence in the doorway.
Vanessa.
She was wearing the same dress as the night before and her hair had become knotted with tangles. From the sour look on her face Martell guessed that the spare room he had set her up in hadn’t been particularly comfortable. With a pile of boxes in the corner and its perpetual smell of damp, he understood why. If she would be staying with them for a while longer—which he presumed would be the case—then sorting out her room would have to be one of their first priorities.
‘Vanessa,’ Tony smiled. ‘You’re awake.’
‘I am? How disappointing. I was hoping it was all just a terrible dream.’
She took a seat at the kitchen table. Martell handed her a plate of toast that she looked at miserably.
‘Toast. I bet you two live on the stuff, don’t you?’
He let the comment slide. ‘How are you this morning, my dear? Did you manage to get any sleep?’
‘Sleep? Oh yes, I slept wonderfully. I particularly enjoyed listening to the mice pattering across the floor before I drifted off. That always helps me to relax.’
She bit into her toast. Crunched. Chewed. Swallowed.
‘So,’ she sighed, to nobody in particular, ‘this is London, is it?’ The weariness in her voice was unmistakable. Martell tried to placate her with a smile but she either didn’t notice or else chose to ignore it altogether. Looking around at the insides of the kitchen she pulled a face. ‘This is all a bit gloomy, isn’t it?’
‘Well, yes,’ Martell admitted. ‘I suppose in a way it is.’
‘And what about you?’ she said, turning her attention to Tony. ‘You’re supposed to be his assistant. How on earth have you let the shop get into such a state? Have you never heard of a broom?’
Tony looked towards Martell for help, but it was no use.
The old man bit his bottom lip. ‘We don’t tend to worry too much about dust and cobwebs, my dear. We spend most of our time working. Preparing antiques, selling antiques, reading books …’ He spotted an opening. ‘Do you like books? We have shelves full of them.’
‘I like books,’ Vanessa replied, showing a hint of curiosity for the first time. She dismissed this with a shake of her head. ‘But I also like basic standards of cleanliness and I refuse to stay another night in a place that looks like it hasn’t seen a mop and bucket in over a hundred years. It wouldn’t surprise me to see a chimney sweep scuttle out from one of the fireplaces and ask for half a shilling.’
Martell let the insults keep coming. The years spent raising Tony had given him a good insight into how the minds of young people worked. He recognized her bravado and resentment as signs of abandonment. As tough and resilient as Vanessa was, being left behind at the auction had hurt her. It would have undermined her confidence, damaged her opinion of herself, and left her feeling hopeless and alone. He felt sorry for her. He remembered telling Tony about his father for the first time and seeing that same anger in his eyes. The injustice of it all. He wanted to give her a hug, as he had done to the boy, but in the circumstances it felt inappropriate. Her emotions were still too raw, her thoughts too mixed up to see the gesture as anything other than patronizing.
He was pleased to see that Tony recognized how upset she was, too. He didn’t snap back at her, no matter how much she insulted the shop and the shoddiness of the building. That made him proud. He knew how much the boy disliked having his livelihood questioned. For the first time in a long while he recognized some of himself in his nephew instead of Thomas, and this was a great relief.
He took himself over to the window and pressed his forehead against the glass. In the distance, beyond the courtyard wall, London stretched out in front of him. Distant rooftops, church spires, far-off factories, tower blocks. It was a scene he had looked out on every morning now for almost sev
enty years, and yet this was the first time the view had invoked feelings of loss and loneliness. His life had changed irreparably now, he knew that. The good old days of pricing up antiques and teaching the boy about history, geography, and the wonders of the world were gone for good. The thought saddened him tremendously.
We had a good run, though, didn’t we, Tony? We were a good team.
He broke off from his daydreaming. Vanessa had finished her toast and was brushing the creases from her dress. ‘Well, that was very tasty. Thank you very much. But I suppose I’ll be moving on now. Having singlehandedly saved us all from a coven of witches I don’t suppose finding my way back to Crete will be too much of a problem.’
‘You don’t have to go,’ Martell said. ‘You’re welcome to stay with us if you’d like.’
There was a momentary twitch of her eyebrows. She hadn’t expected the offer. This was a consequence of rejection, Martell thought. An inability to think people might actually care about her.
‘Preposterous,’ she muttered. ‘No, I’m sure Carlos is missing me tremendously. He didn’t mean to leave me behind last night. He was frightened, that’s all. I’ll go back to Crete and everything will be just like it was before.’
Neither Martell nor Tony needed to say anything. Seconds later she had already begun to talk herself out of it.
‘Although I never much cared for him to begin with, I suppose. He was a friend of my parents and only took me in because I had nowhere else to go. He wasn’t the most pleasant employer a young girl could have either. He used to always tune the radio to some awful fiddles-and-handclaps station. It was dreadful. That alone is reason enough not to go back.’
For a while she continued making a show of deciding what she should do, weighing up the pros and cons of her choices and talking about what a difficult decision it was (‘both options sound equally miserable to me’). Martell let her. If he had read the situation correctly then she wanted to stay, but had to convince herself that admitting she did wasn’t a sign of weakness. She was more vulnerable than she realized: powerful enough to shoot bolts of lightning from her fingertips, but deep down just as lonely and hurt as any abandoned child would be.