Wizard Undercover

by K. E. Mills

  The hex’s murky siren call bubbled thickly through his blood. He could feel its residual miasma slickly, sickly, coating his potentia. On the hob, the kettle started to boil. Staring at the deceptively innocuous parcel on the table, he ignored its shrill singing.

  “And you want me to deconstruct the bloody thing? Is that why you’re here?”

  Sir Alec nodded again. “It is.”

  Belly churning, Monk swallowed.

  Dammit. Why me?

  Up went Sir Alec’s supercilious eyebrow. “Because there’s no-one else, Mister Markham. I thought we’d long ago established that.”

  This was his kitchen, in his house, and Sir Alec had barged in without an invitation. “Look,” he said, close to snarling, and moved to silence the shrieking kettle. The blood hex was scraping his nerves to ribbons. “Stop doing that, all right? I don’t like it. And I don’t like being taken for granted, either. Or being ambushed outside my own bloody home.”

  “Indeed,” said Sir Alec. “And is there anything else you don’t like, Mister Markham? While we’re on the subject, and before we turn our attention to matters that actually matter.”

  It would be a grave mistake to throw the kettle. Seething, Monk made them both coffee, liberally laced it with brandy, then shoved Sir Alec’s mug across the table in his general direction.

  “Feel free to burn your tongue on it. Sir.”

  Sir Alec left his mug where it was. “I need that blood hex deconstructed tonight, Mister Markham.”

  Looking at the seemingly innocuous parcel was hard. His gaze kept trying to skitter away. “Gerald sent it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whose blood is it? Abel Bestwick’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you heard from him?”

  “Bestwick?” Sir Alec shook his head. “No.”

  Glowering, Monk risked a sip from his own steaming mug. “From Gerald.”

  “No.”

  Another sip of coffee. The brandy bolstered his faltering courage. “Prob’ly he can’t get through. According to R&D’s monitors, Splotze’s etheretics are a dog’s breakfast just now. I’ve been keeping an eye on ’em.”

  “As have I,” said Sir Alec, and reached for his own coffee. “I trust you’re being discreet?”

  “No, actually,” he said, staring. “Just this afternoon I stood on my desk and made a general announcement.”

  Sir Alec sighed. “Mister Markham …”

  “Yeah, well,” he muttered. “Since you asked for a list, I’m also not too fond of being insulted.”

  “Point taken,” said Sir Alec, after a moment.

  Really? Bloody hell. The man had to be sickening for something. Warier than ever, Monk put down his mug, pulled out a chair and sat. Braced his elbows on the table and forced himself to stare at the paper-wrapped hex.

  “I take it you haven’t opened this?” he said, flicking a glance at Sir Alec.

  “It wasn’t necessary.”

  Now it was his turn to sigh. “I need a minute. Ward the kitchen, would you? Sir?”

  There was no actual, university-approved method of preparing to handle these kind of dangerous thaumaturgics. The closest the textbooks got to sage advice was don’t do it. But his time in the labyrinth of Research and Development had taught him the hard way that launching into any flavour of compromised thaumaturgical deconstructions without some kind of preparation was a guarantee of blood on the walls. Usually, but not always or exclusively, it belonged to the wizard attempting the deconstruction.

  So, as Sir Alec quietly and methodically went about warding the kitchen to prevent the accidental leakage of antithetical subthaumicles, Monk cleared his mind of extraneous thoughts—Blimey, Gerald, I hope you three are all right—and encouraged his pulse rate to slow down before his heart wore out.

  His hands were sweating. He wiped them dry on his chest.

  “In your own time, Mister Markham,” said Sir Alec, leaning against the sink with his arms folded and his face blank.

  In other words, Get on with it.

  He took a deep breath. Let it out slowly, willing the fear to breath out too. Glanced up. “I’m ready. But look, if Reg comes back while I’m—”

  “Rest easy, Mister Markham,” Sir Alec said. “I promise to keep the bird out of your hair.”

  “Yeah, good, fine,” he said, frowning. “Only, y’know, nicely. Don’t forget she’s had a rough trot and she’s still not herself.”

  “Mister Markham.”

  Right.

  On another deep breath, Monk reached for the parcel. Tried not to notice how his fingers trembled as he unknotted the string and discarded it, along with the crumpled brown paper wrapping. And then stifled a curse as they touched the raggedly square, bloodstained, hexed piece of old blue carpet.

  Oh, Gerald. What are you mixed up in now?

  Vaguely he was aware of Sir Alec’s gasp of startled discomfort. So, the man was human. Vulnerable, even. That was nice to know. Perhaps. And something else to set aside, as he faced the blood magic in all its malevolent perfection.

  The warm kitchen seemed to chill as he focused his potentia on the daunting task before him. The lamplit air cooled from comforting yellow to unfriendly blue. His heart thumped. His skin crawled. With a growing sense of alarm he began to doubt he was the right wizard for this.

  “Yes, you are, Mister Markham,” said Sir Alec, from a long way away. “I have every faith in you. Now stop dithering and do your job.”

  Stop dithering? Stop dithering?

  You miserable sarky bugger. I hope you choke on those cigarettes.

  He closed his eyes. Released his fear. Flattened both palms firmly, deliberately against the hexed piece of carpet, and plunged himself into the dark hell of grimoire magic.

  Time melted. Turned liquid. Became molten glass. Trapped in a burning prism, he struggled and shuddered and fought. The hex’s filthy thaumaturgical field was an ocean of pitiless acid. Burning, it stripped him to bare, bloody bones, scoured him clean of all conceit and any faith in his powers. He swam its currents with desperation, always two shallow gasps from drowning.

  Bugger this, Gerald. I wish you were here.

  No. No. He couldn’t afford to think about Gerald. Or Bibbie. Or Melissande. Let himself get distracted and he really would drown.

  The blood magic incant whipped around him like rope in a tornado. Every attempt to snatch it to stillness failed. He was tired, so bloody tired, but he didn’t dare give up. He was a Markham, and Markhams always won.

  Except when we lose.

  He could feel the panic rising, feel the bitter cold of defeat.

  I can’t do this. I’m not Gerald. I’m no rogue.

  From so far away that it felt like a dream, he heard a soft and familiar voice.

  “—age, Mister Markham. Courage. One foot in front of the other. It’s not acceptable for you to fall over now.”

  Irritated, he twitched the words away like a horse wrinkling its skin to discourage a fly.

  Bloody Sir Alec Oldman. Sir Manky. Sir Secret Government Stooge. All his fault, this was.

  I could be having a bath.

  Battered by the relentless thaumaturgical stresses, Monk strained his potentia way past what he knew was safe. He could feel the sweat pouring, hear the air rasping in his throat. How long now had he been fighting? He had no idea. The hex was half blood magic, half thaumaturgical barbed wire.

  I can’t believe Gerald tamed it. What the hell has he become?

  A question that had to wait for an answer he wasn’t sure he could stomach.

  The cruel incant whipped by him yet again, for the hundredth time, the thousandth. Because he had to, because he was a Markham and he couldn’t give up, he couldn’t lose, for the hundredth time, the thousandth, he reached for it with his potentia.

  And shouted aloud as this time his potentia held it fast. He clutched the blood magic hex tight, almost sobbing with relief, eager to rip its strands apart before it escaped him.
/>   What is this thing? Who made it? Have I ever met this brilliant, murdering bastard of a wizard?

  Greedy as a little boy tearing the wrapping paper from his birthday gifts, he began to peel away the hex’s violently defensive outer layer. And it hurt, bugger, it hurt. He was running naked through a briar patch, a ragged dance of blood and pain.

  It doesn’t matter. It’s not important. Winning matters. Nothing else.

  And he was winning. Against the odds, he was winning.

  There were three distinct thaumic fingerprints tangled up in the hex. That much was clear. He was almost sure one of them was Gerald’s. Not positive, though, because it was distorted by the underlying blood magic. The second fingerprint belonged to missing Abel Bestwick. That came from the dried blood. A wizard’s potentia screamed in his blood. And thanks to Sir Alec, he’d been made familiar with Bestwick’s thaumaturgical signature. As for the third thaumic fingerprint, he couldn’t quite—it was slippery—what the devil—

  And then he realised. Markham, you dimwit. It wasn’t a thaumic fingerprint at all, it was a powerful deflection incant. Flawless, in fact. Shining and polished, like a mirror reflecting an abyss. Move along now, move along. There’s nothing to see here.

  Groaning, Monk wrapped his bruised and briar-pricked potentia around the incant and wrenched it loose. It dissolved almost at once in the blood magic’s thaumaturgical field … and at last he was staring into the beating heart of evil.

  And could see nothing else. Every element, every syllable, every thread of the incant was warded. Bound and smothered and defended by deflections he’d need a year, at least, to unravel. Churning beneath the pain, the kind of fear he wasn’t used to feeling.

  Oh, lord. If Sir Alec shoved the wizard who made this in front of me, right now, I wouldn’t know. I couldn’t recognise him.

  So how the hell was that winning?

  He felt sick.

  “Right then, Sir Alec, that’s more than enough,” said another distant voice. “He’s been playing silly buggers with that filthy hex of yours for nearly three hours. Look at his face! He’s the colour of week-old milk.” A sharp poke in his arm. A small pain, but rousing. “Come along, Mister Clever Clogs. Time to stop showing off.”

  Step by feeble step, exhausted, Monk backed out of the thaumaturgical briar patch. Took a moment to catch his breath, then wearily disentangled his potentia from the blood magic he had failed to decipher.

  When at last he’d gathered enough strength to blink his vision clear, he saw Reg standing on the table in front of him, feathers militantly ruffled, dark eyes alight with a combative gleam. Sir Alec was still leaning—no, actually, he was slouching now, not like him at all—against the kitchen sink and regarding Reg with a definitely jaundiced air. Then his tired gaze shifted, and in his pale grey eyes, a fading hope.

  “Well, Mister Markham?”

  He scrubbed his fingers through his hair, then dragged his palms down his face, feeling unclean. Badly used. With his elbow, he shoved the bloodstained carpet further away. A damned shame he couldn’t burn it.

  “Well, sir, it’s a blood magic hex and the target was—is— Abel Bestwick.”

  “And?”

  Not at all fooled by Sir Alec’s measured tone and seeming indifference, he tried to stifle a wince. The tatty piece of carpet lay on the table like a crime.

  “And that’s it,” he said, fighting the desire to hide behind his hands. “That’s all I can tell you. Bestwick’s in there, and Gerald. I can identify their potentias. But the wizard who created that piece of muck is a ghost.” He met Sir Alec’s grey gaze defiantly. “I’m sorry.”

  Silence, as Sir Alec stared. It was impossible to say what he was thinking, or feeling. His tired face was utterly blank.

  “Right then!” Reg said briskly, and rattled her tail. “So that was very interesting, and now it’s over, and now you, Sir Alec, can be on your merry way because our Mister Markham is no longer At Home to visitors.”

  “Indeed,” Sir Alec said, straightening. “I wasn’t aware, Reg, that you—”

  “No, of course you’re not bloody aware,” Reg snapped. “Of anything, as far as I can see. People like you never are. People like you, sunshine, are so busy swanning about tossing orders like half-cooked rice at a third-rate wedding that you can’t even see that—”

  Sir Alec silenced her with a look. “Mister Markham.”

  Monk shoved his chair back and made himself stand. “Sir.”

  “You put in a fine effort,” Sir Alec said, with every appearance of sincerity. “You shouldn’t reproach yourself. Bringing you that hex to break was more a last ditch hope than anything.”

  What? “Now you bloody tell me!”

  A wintry smile. “Indeed.”

  With a shiver of revulsion, Monk stared at the bloodstained carpet. “You should stick that filthy thing somewhere safe and wait for Gerald to get home. He’ll be able to sort it out. Aside from the bastard who created it, I reckon he’s the only one who can.”

  “I’m inclined to agree,” said Sir Alec, after a moment. “And if that notion doesn’t scare you spitless, Mister Markham, then I am gravely mistaken in you.”

  Their eyes met in a rare, complete sympathy.

  “Now hold on a minute—” Reg began, feathers bristling.

  “Don’t, Reg,” he said. “Please. I’ll explain later.”

  As Reg subsided, muttering darkly under her breath, Sir Alec removed the warding hexes he’d placed around the kitchen. No longer trusting his legs to hold him upright, Monk dropped back into his chair.

  “So, sir. What now?”

  “What d’you think?” Sir Alec said, shrugging. “We wait and cross our fingers, Mister Markham. Something will happen, eventually. It generally does. That is the nature of the janitoring beast. And in the meantime …” His brows pinched in a small frown. “While, for obvious reasons, I cannot officially be aware of your nocturnal perambulations through various buildings of a foreign character …”

  He swallowed a sigh. He’d spent too long in Uncle Ralph’s company not to hear the unspoken request. “You’d be tickled pink if Reg and I kept on perambulating while you very carefully look in the opposite direction?”

  A glimmer of weary appreciation. “How many more embassies have you to investigate?”

  “There’s only Harenstein’s to go. The rest are all clear. But there’ll be a bit of a delay checking it, I’m sorry. Their regular butler’s flat on his back with a nasty case of catarrh, and Dodsworth’s not cosy enough with his understudy to risk pushing him for an invitation to afternoon tea.”

  “Dodsworth,” said Sir Alec, after a tight-lipped pause. “The Markham family butler, yes?”

  “That’s right,” Monk said, daring him to complain. “He’s been helping me—us—out. Don’t worry, I haven’t told him anything important. Not that he’s asked. He knows better than to pry. Alfred Dodsworth is a good man, Sir Alec. You can trust him. My word on that.”

  Reg rattled her tail. “Oh, don’t bother, sunshine. You’re wasting your breath. They’ve got no sense of humour, these bloody Government types.”

  She was right, Sir Alec was definitely unamused. “Look, sir,” he persisted, starting to feel put-upon again, “you did say you didn’t care how I went about this. And Dodsworth’s been fabulously crafty. No-one suspects a thing. In fact—”

  But Sir Alec was shaking his head. “Not another word, Mister Markham. We’ll just file this under Ignorance is Bliss and move on, I think.”

  Sometimes meekness was the better part of not having one’s head bitten off. “Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir.”

  That earned him another jaundiced look. “How long before the adventurously trustworthy Dodsworth can wangle his useful invitation into the Harenstein embassy?”

  “A few days, he said.”

  Sir Alec’s lips pinched again. “No sooner?”

  “No, sir. Sorry.”

  “In that case I’ll leave the matter in your hands
Mister Markham. But I expect you to apprise me at once, no matter the hour, of any useful developments.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “As for this abomination—” With a jerk of his chin, Sir Alec indicated the ragged, bloodstained piece of carpet containing the blood hex. “I’ve changed my mind. Mister Dunwoody’s unique prowess notwithstanding, given the gravity of the situation I’d like to leave it here. So that when you’re rested you can make another attempt to identify the wizard responsible for creating that blood magic incant.”

  Monk made himself look at the hexed bloodstain, not even trying to hide his shudder of disgust. Wrap his potentia around that thing again? He’d rather saw off his own head with a blunt butter knife. But how could he say no, with Sir Alec asking him almost politely, for once not making demands, and a tightly leashed tension in him that suggested he was a man straining hard at the end of his tether.

  Reg rattled her tail even more emphatically, the gleam in her eyes ominous. “Now look here, sunshine—” “Reg,” he sighed. “It’s all right. Someone has to do it and who else can he ask? There’s only Gerald. And Gerald’s not around.”

  The bird was practically bouncing with indignation. “I know that, don’t I? As if I need you to remind me of that!”

  “I’ll do my best, Sir Alec,” he said, resisting the urge to throw a tea towel over her. “But I’m not making any promises.”

  Sir Alec nodded. “And I am not asking for them, Mister Markham. Good night.”

  As the muffled sound of the front door closing reached them, Reg chattered her beak. “That manky bloody man. One of these days, sunshine, I’m telling you. One of these days …”

  Forcing open eyelids that felt gritty with weariness, Monk considered her. “Why do you always have to give him so much grief, Reg? Is it all government men you mistrust, or is there something about Sir Alec in particular that puts your beak on edge?”

  Instead of answering, Reg fluffed her feathers and hunched her head close to her chest. Against every expectation, she seemed almost apologetic.

  “Reg?” he persisted.

  “Blimey, you’re a nosy bugger,” she muttered, resentful. “Instead of peppering me with impertinent questions, why don’t you wrap that ratty bit of carpet in a nice old-fashioned dampening hex and get it out of my sight before it sends me into a spontaneous moult?”