by Kyle Shultz
“We’re here to see Malcolm Blackfire,” I said.
The thin one drew himself up. “I am Clarence Bott.”
“My condolences,” I said sincerely.
“I am Malcolm Blackfire’s personal secretary.” He motioned to the thuggish gentleman beside him. “This is Warrengate’s new head of security, Mr. Eustace Knaggs.”
“Misfortune on every side.” I shook my head. “Well, we can’t stop here all day consoling you about your names. We need to speak to Malcolm immediately.”
Clarence arched an eyebrow. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m an eight-foot-tall monster. I never bother making appointments. Besides, Malcolm’s an old friend.”
Additional venom oozed into Clarence’s smile. “Ah, yes. I recognize you now.” As if Mr. Blott hadn’t recognized me before. It wasn’t as if there were creatures like me running around all over the place. “You’re responsible for the recent disturbances in the magical community.”
I returned the smile. “Perhaps if there hadn’t been a bunch of evil magic-wielders controlling the world—most of whom learned their trade at this very school—those disturbances wouldn’t have been necessary.”
Clarence sniffed. “Be that as it may, because of the current unrest, Mr. Blackfire cannot simply drop all his important work without advance notice—not even for alleged ‘old friends.’” He made finger quotes around the words. As he did, I noticed that the backs of his hands were covered in thick fur, and that there were dark pads on his fingers and palms.
Crispin had seen it too. “Er…” he began.
“Mr. Blackfire,” Clarence went on, ignoring the interruption, “relies exclusively on me to prevent any disruptions to his schedule, and handle the more trivial matters on his behalf.” His goatee and mustache lengthened as fur spread out from them, and his darkening nose and lips rapidly grew into a canine muzzle. “So I will have to call upon Mr. Knaggs to escort you out.”
“Right,” said Knaggs. Fur was sprouting from his face as well, white in color and a good deal longer than Clarence’s. “I’ll see to it straight away, Mr. Bott.” Without a moment’s hesitation, he sank down on all fours, revealing that he had grown a long, shaggy tail. “You!” he shouted. “Out! Out! Auf! Arf! ARF! RARF!”
Clarence stared down at his colleague in total consternation. “Good grief, man, what—” He suddenly noticed the fur on his hands, and peered over his shoulder to see that he’d acquired a tail of his own. The awkward motion coupled with the shock caused him to lose his balance, and he sat down hard on his haunches, looking more like a Fairedale terrier every second. Knaggs, meanwhile, had changed fully into a big, shaggy sheepdog. Their clothes hung ridiculously off their bodies. They both started barking frantically at us, apparently blaming us for this turn of events.
“Ninety-seven, ninety-eight,” I counted off. Obviously, there were probably other transformations going on elsewhere, so my tally wasn’t quite accurate.
“Heavens,” said Oswalt. “It’s happening everywhere, isn’t it? Hope I’m not next.”
Crispin and I exchanged glances.
“What,” boomed a voice from the direction of the fireplace, “is going on here?”
I jumped in surprise as Malcolm Blackfire suddenly stepped out of the flames. Even his clothes and his unkempt, greying red hair were left untouched by the heat.
“I didn’t know that fireplace was a magic portal,” I exclaimed.
“It’s a Dragonflame Rift,” said Malcolm. “Leads directly to my cave. Only dragons can use it, of course, everyone else gets burnt to a crisp, and why am I bothering to explain all this to you?” He frowned at the three dogs. The two which had been his employees were now barking and growling at each other. “Would you care to explain why my school is suddenly overrun with dogs? Is Crispin cluttering up the place with pets again?”
“Actually,” said Crispin, “that smaller one there is a Mr. Clarence Bott, and the other one is called Eustace Knaggs.”
“The sycophant and the orangutan?” Malcolm surveyed them with mild interest. “Well, they were bound to get themselves turned into something sooner or later.” His eyes fell on Oswalt. “And who’s that?”
The Inspector padded up to him. “Inspector Edwin Oswalt, sir, at your service.” He raised a paw for Malcolm to shake. “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Blackfire.”
Malcolm looked at me and Crispin. Crispin gestured emphatically for him to accept the handshake, and I put a finger to my lips.
“Ah. Yes. Quite.” Malcolm knelt down and shook the bulldog’s paw. “Charmed, I’m sure.” He glanced up at us and mouthed What?
“There’s a crisis in Talesend,” I said.
Malcolm stood up and folded his arms. “What a surprise. When isn’t there a crisis in Talesend? I’d have thought you were all used to it by now; why drag me into it?”
“Because Cordelia’s missing,” Crispin blurted out.
“No,” I corrected him firmly. “Because we wish to consult you. Professionally. Which we would have done even if Cordelia weren’t missing. Because we don’t depend on her for everything.”
“Insecure, much?” said Crispin.
“Stop.” Malcolm raised his hand. “First, the two of you—” He pointed to Knaggs and Bott. “Shut it, or I’ll send you both to the nearest pound.”
The two dogs stopped barking and dropped their heads.
“And you two,” he continued, turning to us. “I have absolutely no patience for the Beasley family drama today. Pitch it to the TBC; maybe they’ll turn it into a radio serial or something. State your problem as succinctly as possible before I am forced to vent my emotions by means of a very literal fiery outburst.”
“He’s a dragon,” Crispin explained to Oswalt in a whisper.
Oswalt blinked. “Coo.”
“All adult male humans in Talesend are turning into dogs,” I said. “It all started with Gregory Duville—”
“Never heard of him,” said Malcolm.
“—and apparently, it’s happening here too.”
Malcolm frowned. “It hasn’t been happening here, not until these two. I’ve been shouting at a whole meeting-room full of humans, nearly half of whom were male, and none of them turned into dogs. I wish they had. It would have relieved the monotony of their vacant, fish-like stares as I struggled to make them understand that just because I’m a dragon, it doesn’t mean I’m made of money.” He hesitated. “Well, actually, it does, but they don’t need to know that, do they?”
“Look,” I said, annoyed, “it’s a big problem, okay? I mean, we can’t have this sort of thing going on, now can we?”
“Can’t we?”
“No! How would you like it if all male dragons started turning into dogs?”
Malcolm gave me an austere look. “That would never happen. Such things are beneath the majesty of dragon-kind.”
I rolled my eyes. “Get over yourself.”
“Never. So, what exactly do you suggest I do?”
“First off,” I said, taking the shackle from my pocket, “ever seen something like this?”
Malcolm took it from me and squinted at the inscription. “Good heavens.”
For the perpetually-unruffled Malcolm to say that, this had to be something big. “You know what it is?”
“Certainly I do. It’s a Tartarus Shackle.”
“Ooh, let me guess.” Crispin jumped up and down and waved his hand like an excited schoolboy. “Something to do with…fish!”
“More like something to do with ‘eternal prison of doom,’” said Malcolm.
I patted Crispin on the head. “Nice try.”
“In olden times—by which I mean very olden—these were used to imprison gods who had committed reprehensible crimes,” said Malcolm. “A Tartarus Shackle could, if applied according to the proper legal and magical procedures, nullify the powers of the wearer and leave that person entirely under the dominion of their jailers. There aren’t many of the things left, b
ut the few that survived were collected by our old friends, the Council of Scions.”
Crispin looked astonished. “The Council was locking up gods?”
“Only a few. Mostly, they used those shackles on extremely powerful enchanters. The most formidable magic-users in the Afterlands. But about a month ago—and this could be significant, so pay attention—one of the Council’s prisons in Contefay was raided by a group of surviving members of the Camelot Resistance. The Council had abandoned it, so it wasn’t difficult. And, in a display of stupidity unrivaled since the days of the Ogrish Empire, they decided to set all those incredibly dangerous prisoners free.”
“They broke the shackles off?” asked Crispin.
“Probably not. They must have destroyed the magic scroll that linked to the shackles and forbade any of the prisoners from leaving the jail. But it would have taken an extremely skilled enchanter to remove the shackles so the prisoners would be able to use their powers again.”
“Like Cordelia,” I guessed.
Malcolm nodded. “Yes, I think she could manage it.”
I pointed to the shackle. “We found that in her room. It had been ransacked, and somebody kidnapped her using magic.”
“Then the perpetrator must have escaped the prison, tracked down Cordelia, and used her to get free of the shackle,” said Oswalt. “Then, he or she started changing all the men into dogs.” He shook his ears thoughtfully. “Yes, it’s all starting to make sense.”
I shrugged. “As much as something this bizarre can make sense, I suppose. Would you happen to know which prisoners were locked up there, Malcolm?”
“What, all of them?” Malcolm snorted. “What do you take me for, a walking encyclopedia?”
“No, just an incredibly old dragon with a very long memory.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Watch it, Beasley.” Muttering under his breath, he rummaged in the pockets of his coat and finally pulled out a folded, blank sheet of paper. He unfurled it and held his hand over it. Smoke rose from the page as names were burned into it, in beautiful, flowing calligraphy. He gave the sheet to me. “Here. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
I skimmed the names. Crispin looked over my shoulder and did the same.
“I don’t recognize any of these,” I said.
“There’s over a hundred names on this!” Crispin exclaimed. “How are we supposed to look into them all?”
“I’m assuming that not all of these people knew Cordelia,” I said, addressing Malcolm.
“No.” He waved his hand, and lines crossed out most of the names, leaving about twenty or so.
“Still a lot of possibilities,” said Crispin.
“Yes…but only one that I’m interested in.” I tapped the name that had caught my eye. “Circe. As in the Circe, I take it.”
“Who else?” said Malcolm.
“I don’t understand,” said Oswalt.
“Neither do I,” said Crispin. “Should I know who she is?”
“A witch,” I explained.
“Yes!” said Crispin, elated. “I was right! I told you it was a—”
“Hush,” I boomed. “Getting back to the point, Circe is a mythical figure, or so I thought when I first read about her years ago. According to legend, she had a penchant for luring sailors to her island palace and then turning them all into animals. Am I correct, Malcolm?”
“So far as I know,” he said. “I didn’t delve into her past while she worked at Warrengate.”
My eyes widened. “She worked here?”
“Yes, up until…” He tapped his lips as he thought. “Oh, 1919, or thereabouts. She had a falling-out with the Council. I believe she changed the Council Treasurer into a warthog, and Madame Levesque took a dim view of the incident. That’s how she got locked up.”
“And she definitely knew Cordelia?” I asked, wanting to be sure.
“Oh, certainly. Cordelia got top marks in her class.”
“Which was what, exactly?” said Crispin.
“Metamorphic magic. What else? The study of transformation, whether it be shapeshifting oneself or changing other creatures.”
I guffawed. “I’ve already had enough personal experience with that to last me a lifetime. I should have a degree in it.” I tapped Circe’s name on the sheet. “The point is, all the evidence fits with her being the culprit. The legends portray her as having something of a vendetta against men. Now that she’s free and the Council’s gone, she’s just picking up where she left off. She used Cordelia to rid herself of the Tartarus Shackle, then kidnapped her so she wouldn’t be a threat to her plans.” I shuddered. “I hope she hasn’t turned her into anything.”
“I’ve heard very few mentions of her transforming women,” said Malcolm. “Well, except for that one time when she changed a romantic rival into a hideous monster with dog heads and tentacles and fangs and…bleagh, but I wouldn’t worry too much about that.”
I felt a wave of nausea. “We need a lead on Circe, now. Malcolm, do you know anything else about her that might be helpful? Anything at all?”
Malcolm thought for a moment. “Aside from the whole animal-lover thing? No, not really.”
I sighed. “We’ll just have to work with that, then. We should get back to Talesend; start hunting for more leads.”
“Right.” Oswalt nodded. “Good idea.”
I winced. This was where things were going to get touchy. “Actually…why don’t you stay here for a bit, Inspector?”
“What?” said the bulldog.
“What?” said Malcolm, a bit more emphatically.
“I’m sure that Malcolm would be happy to give you a tour of Warrengate. Wouldn’t you, Malcolm?”
“I most certainly would not—wait, stop it, what are you doing? Unhand me, hairball!”
I ignored Malcolm’s protests as I dragged him out of Oswalt’s earshot. At least, I hoped it was out of the dog’s earshot—his hearing was probably a lot better now.
“Look,” I whispered, “just do this one thing for me, okay? For old times’ sake?”
“What old times?” he demanded. “I’ve only known you for a little over a year!”
“Technically, you first met me a hundred years ago.”
“That doesn’t count! I don’t even remember it!”
“I’ll owe you a favor.”
He opened his mouth to protest again, then hesitated. “Hmm. Now that you mention it, there is one thing you could do for me.”
“Name it,” I said, with more enthusiasm than I felt. I wasn’t sure what sort of favor a dragon was likely to ask for.
“You won’t like it,” he said, adding to my unease.
Impatiently, I drummed the claws on my left foot against the floor. “Go on.”
“Let me train Crispin.”
I stared at him. “Train him to do what?”
“To control his powers. He’s been needing it for a long time. Let him come to Warrengate and get a proper education.”
I curled my lip. “Nothing doing.”
“I haven’t broached the subject up ‘til now because I knew how you’d react, but if you really want me to take care of your little dog-sitting problem…” Malcolm beckoned to Crispin and called out before I could stop him. “You. Rabbit Boy. You’d like some magical training, wouldn’t you?”
Crispin’s face lit up. “Would I!”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes!”
“No!” I snapped. “Absolutely not! I forbid it!”
“You’re not in charge of my entire life,” Crispin argued. “And you can’t stop me from attending Warrengate.”
“I’ve got teeth and claws and muscles and a magic-resistant hide. Perhaps you should reconsider that statement.” I turned on Malcolm. “Any other favor, sure, but not this.”
“But—” Crispin began.
“No buts!” I insisted.
Crispin sighed. “Fine.”
I knew that sigh. It was a trick sigh. A “this-conversation-isn’t
-actually-over” sigh. He’d pretend to go along for now and then wait for an opportune moment to badger me about Warrengate. He’d been using this strategy since we were kids.
“Fine,” said Malcolm wearily. “You’ll owe me a different favor, then. But it’ll be a big one. Very, very big. Unless you end up changing your mind about my original offer.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” I muttered.
“Of course not,” Malcolm scoffed. “It’s very dangerous for dragons to hold their breaths. I might blow up or something.” He clapped his hands. “Right, then. Tour. Come along, Inspector Whatever-Your-Name-Is.”
Inspector Oswalt looked nervously at Malcolm. Whether he ever figured out what had happened to him or not, he was certainly in for an interesting afternoon.
Chapter 6
The Curse of the Duck Fairy
“This is nice,” Crispin remarked, as we walked down Greatfall Street together.
I frowned at him in confusion. “What do you mean?” I was on guard in case he tried bringing up Warrengate again, but so far he hadn’t mentioned it. Still biding his time, I presumed.
“You know. You and me, solving cases together, like the old days.” He grinned at the misty, rainy city around us as if it were a sunlit paradise. A few people stopped to stare at us, or to point and whisper to their friends, but by now they’d grown accustomed enough to my appearance that there wasn’t any screaming or fainting. Usually.
I nodded. “Yeah. Exactly like the old days. Except for me being a big hairy monster and you being a time-traveling shapeshifting rabbit, and our case involving actual magic. Otherwise, indistinguishable from the old days.”
“Well, your sarcasm certainly hasn’t changed.” He pointed up at a familiar building. “Look, there’s the window to our old flat. Remember?”
“Yeah, I remember.” I smiled slightly. “Don’t tell anyone at the Office I said this—or tell the Office himself—but I do sometimes miss living in a place where all the rooms stay put.”
Crispin laughed. “I suppose that had its benefits. But you wouldn’t trade anything else for what we had before, would you? I mean, things are a lot better now.” He glanced at me. “Except for…well…”