Borage

by Gill McKnight

“Yello?” Ping answered far too cheerily.

  Abby huffed and gathered her papers together. The morning was a washout, thanks to—

  “Fergal! Where are you?” Ping continued chirping in the kitchen. “Ha, dream on. She’s in an even fouler mood…” There was a burp of rude laughter to whatever witticism Fergal had come up with, then, “Oh, she’s going to kill you. You’re joking. Really? Ask her if she can bake me some of those fudge fandangos, will you? I’ve been dreaming about them. What? Oh, no, that’s awful.”

  Abby frowned. Fudge fandangos clearly indicated something to do with Astral. What exactly was awful?

  Phone tucked under her chin, a coffee in one hand and a chocolate biscuit in the other, Ping emerged from the kitchen. Her eyes bugged when she saw Abby sitting at Fergal’s desk. “I’ll call you back.” She fumbled and cut the call off.

  “I trust Mister Mor is well?” Abby said in her coldest voice, the one that froze fish.

  Ping blazed scarlet. “Um. Yeah. Or no. Um…”

  Abby knew time and silence. They were old friends of hers. She also knew how torturous the two combined could be. She focused her unblinking gaze on Ping’s frightened, frozen face. The silence drew out, second after second, until the ticking of the wall clock drummed louder than the hammer of Ping’s rabbit heart. Abby felt the heat of its manic beat from across the room. The tension grew tighter, steelier with each tick. Abby broke it at precisely the right moment—before every tendon in Ping’s body snapped in two.

  “Where is he? Not that I need ask, thanks to your side order of fudge fandangos.”

  Ping apparently choked on her own saliva because she made an ugly gurgling sound.

  “He’s in Golem, isn’t he,” Abby stated flatly, feeling absurdly envious. “With Ms Projector. My question to you is why?” Black and Blacker had entered a delicate phase with the Curdle contract. She didn’t need Fergal Mor performing a drunken jig in the middle of everything.

  There was also the fact that she would never again be invited inside Astral’s house, yet a total tosser like Fergal Mor could stroll right on in. Her stomach chilled until it was as frosty as her voice. She liked Astral’s house. It was cosy and…special, somehow. She’d enjoyed sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a mid-range cognac and chatting in the candle glow. There were very few spaces where Abby found she could relax and unwind and surprisingly, Astral’s house had been one of them.

  “He’s run away,” Ping spluttered, her fealty to Fergal melting like the chocolate digestive in her fingers.

  “Run away? What do you mean, run away? This isn’t boarding school.” Abby’s temper frayed. “He’s an adult.”

  “He’s gone to see Astral. He wants her to come back to work—”

  “Does anybody have a titter of wit around here? I’ve already asked her,” Abby said, raising her voice. “She said no.”

  “Oh.” Ping took a huge swallow. “That’s unusual.”

  She scanned Ping for signs of sarcasm but she seemed sincere enough, so she continued, though in a more contained manner. “Why does Fergal think he, of all people, can persuade Ms Projector to return to her former position when I can’t?” A sliver of hope grew that Fergal might just manage it. Could the stupid leprechaun actually pull it off? Jealousy and joy mingled uneasily in her chest.

  “He hasn’t had a chance to talk to her yet.” Ping stumbled over what little information she possessed. “It’s all going on in Golem. Someone’s poisoning the familiars and—”

  “What?”

  “He said there’s big drama. Someone’s poisoned—”

  “Come.” Abby stormed for the exit. “You, with me. now.”

  Chapter 14

  The front door swung open to reveal an ashen-faced Dulcie. Damián hovered awkwardly at her side, an arm draped around her back, his fist frozen in a mid-air knock.

  The house had sensed their approach and was responding with compassion to their distress. Astral ran to meet them and slowed when she saw how Dulcie clutched a small cardboard box to her chest. Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed.

  “Oh, Astral. I can’t believe it.” She broke into heaving sobs.

  Astral gathered her in her arms and helped her inside. Damián followed, his own eyes showing the ravages of tears. The door closed gently behind them. The grandfather clock gave a soft, solemn chime and the wallpaper muted to grey. All the house lights turned on, then dimmed to a warm-washed glow and the temperature rose to a comforting caress. The house was hugging them, too.

  Borage slunk into the hall and regarded the box with a direful stare, then flattened his ears before slipping away. Astral led them to the kitchen, where Damián went to sort out the tea things while she settled Dulcie, the little box on the tabletop between them.

  “What happened?” Astral asked quietly.

  “We left the house this morning as usual. He flew out the door first and I went back inside, as I’d forgotten something. My scarf. And when I came outside, he was lying on the garden path.” Dulcie snuffled into her hankie. “He was struggling to breathe. His little chest was…” Fresh tears fell. “I jumped in the car and drove like a madwoman to Keeva’s.”

  “She called me on the way, and I met her there.” Damián set a tea tray before them. He spoke softly. “Keeva’s locking up the surgery. She’s on her way over.”

  “What did Keeva say was wrong with him?” Astral was still stunned, still struggling to grasp what had happened.

  “Hexed,” Damián replied grimly.

  “Oh, no.” Who would do such a terrible thing?

  Dulcie pulled the box to her and sobbed over it. Damián gently rubbed her back, his face a rictus of sorrow and fury for the little bird. “Who’s he?” he nodded at Fergal, who was sitting wide-eyed in the corner sipping from his malt glass.

  “A runaway from Black and Blacker,” Astral said. “What kind of hex? Can Keeva trace it?”

  Anger seethed inside her, mixed up with grief. It boiled over into toxicity. She wanted to hurt the person responsible for this, to hex them and see them suffer as Dulcie and Merryman had. Witches and their familiars were heart-bound to each other and only parted when a familiar decided it was time to jump back into the cauldron. Their spirits eventually regenerated into some other creature for some other witch. Merryman’s death, however, was different. It was untimely, unnatural, and a criminal thing—a rending apart of souls. Astral swore vengeance on the perpetrator. When her wand had been broken, the pain had been almost impossible. This…this was so much worse. Astral couldn’t imagine how her friend could bear it.

  Footsteps crunched outside.

  “That will be Keeva,” Damián said, and rose to open the door.

  Instead, Abby Black swept into the kitchen like some version of Darth Vader stepping onto the Death Star. The fire in the stove blazed, then dimmed, and the room turned chilly. Fergal snorted whiskey through his nose and coughed.

  “There has been a death,” she stated imperiously.

  “Well, you should know,” Astral replied, her temper finding a target.

  “It is unofficial,” Abby continued, not looking at her.

  “Well, excuse us for not following your rules.”

  Again, Abby avoided her gaze. “Where is the deceased?”

  “There, in the box.” Damián pointed at the table.

  “You’d think she’d recognise a coffin,” Astral said in a snippy tone. “And how come you can swan in here as if you own—”

  “The doorstep ritual we performed on my first visit allowed me to set up a portal,” she said, finally addressing her directly. “Always a prudent thing to do.” She picked up the box, opened it, and glared at the contents.

  There was a collective gasp and Astral made to snatch the box back when from inside came a scrabbling sound, then a tweet. Then Merryman groggily hopped onto the lip of the carton and looked around, a little wobbly. Abby held out a finger and he transferred over and immediately brightened.

  “Merryman!” Dulcie p
ushed her chair back and stared at her sparrow in total shock, before her face creased into a huge, tearful smile.

  “How did…” Astral stood stupefied in the middle of her own kitchen.

  “If it is not on my To-Do list, then it is not sanctioned by Hellbent Incorporated,” Abby intoned, “making it an erroneous death and therefore correctible. Familiars are highly recyclable creatures but need to follow a strict due process. Today was simply not Merryman’s time.”

  “Familiars have a shelf life?” Damián asked, bewildered.

  “All magical creatures do.” Abby carefully put her finger on the tabletop and Merryman hopped off. He let loose a warbling singsong and scuttled across to Dulcie, who swept him to her chest.

  “Oh, my precious heart,” she whispered, and a teardrop splatted his tousled feathery head.

  “Hellbent keeps a special eye on magical creatures. When they…jump…their innate magic is harvested, then redistributed into their new form.” Abby watched Dulcie and Merryman reunite, expression satisfied. “It is a tricky manoeuvre, so we tend to keep track of it.”

  “But he died,” Astral said. “You couldn’t stop it.”

  “It’s not my job to stop it. The human realm has built-in self-will. People can kill all they want. I carry off the appointed at a prearranged departure point. Murder is something I can’t legislate or control. That’s Ms Blacker’s department,” Abby said.

  “It all sounds very haphazard,” Astral said with a frown.

  “Ms Blacker is also known as War,” Abby continued. “There are three other horsemen, all trying to do the same thing—namely, despatch humanity. The overlap is appalling. And as for the paperwork… Meanwhile, I have to come behind and clean up everyone else’s mess. I’m the one with the real job.” She gave a desultory sniff.

  “How did you know Merryman was dead?” Damián asked. “Is there an alarm?”

  “Mister Mor kindly informed me,” Abby said. “In a roundabout manner.”

  Fergal wilted into his chair.

  A snuffling came from the back door. It pushed open and Lupin wandered in. He looked questioningly around the room, then carefully lumbered over to the fire, where, after a quick sniff at Fergal’s brogues, he slumped onto the hearth rug in what looked like a regency swoon.

  “Sorry I’m late.” Keeva bustled in behind him. She carried a small cauldron and a bag of pungent herbs. Merryman’s funereal items. “I had to lock up shop—oh.” She stopped short when she saw Abby. Then a joyful tweeting from the kitchen table had her fixated on Merryman. “What the…”

  “He’s back,” Dulcie said wetly. “Ms Black brought him back.”

  “What the…” Keeva repeated, wide-eyed.

  “Apparently, it wasn’t his time,” Astral said. “Ms Black has a strict schedule.”

  “It was a hex.” Keeva came farther into the kitchen and shrugged off her coat. “It wasn’t his time because some fecker hexed him. Question is, who? The entire village has turned against us, after all. It could be Magdalene or any one of her posse of bitches.”

  “You’re sure it was a hex?” Abby asked. Her brow knitted.

  Keeva snorted. “You think you can expose the likes of Magdalene Curdle as a crook, break up her coven, and walk away from it unscathed? Of course it was a hex. I treated him.”

  “Ms Ping,” Abby called out to the yard.

  “Ping’s here?” Astral asked, surprised. “Are you slyly moving the entire office to Golem?”

  Abby raised an eyebrow and amusement sparked in her eyes. “Not a bad idea, actually.”

  “I thought I made it very clear I’m not working for you anymore. Not even if you set up shop in my kitchen.”

  “That’s unfortunate, as I rather enjoy your kitchen.”

  Both Keeva and Damián’s eyes widened and they looked first at Abby, then at Astral, then back at Abby, and Astral’s insides warmed in wholly unexpected ways.

  “You haven’t brought Iraldine with you, have you?” Astral asked.

  “Of course not. This is not a matter that concerns her.” Her tone was brusque, and Astral caught a layer of impatience in it, too, and wondered if perhaps Abby had finally moved on from her. And if so…she stopped that line of thought.

  Ping nervously peeped around the door, then sidled in. She flicked a rueful glance at Fergal, who took a huge slurp of whiskey in symbiotic sympathy, then she gave Astral a shy smile.

  “Hi, Astral. Good to see you again.” Her greeting was accompanied with a quick, awkward wave. She looked unsure if she was welcome.

  “Hello, Ping.” Astral was not unhappy to see her. She understood now that Ping, like herself, was a bit player in someone else’s far grander scheme. “Welcome to the Projector home, joy be with our kith and kin. Blessed be.”

  “Get Magdalene Curdle over here now,” Abby said a split second after Astral had finished her greeting.

  Ping turned on her heel and disappeared out the door, and Abby addressed the assembled.

  “I’ll not have a witches’ war on my hands. That is not my department,” she said as she took a seat opposite Dulcie. “This situation gets sorted now. Have you any idea of the paperwork involved in a non-approved war? All I want is a princess. Find her and all will return to normal. Minus your funds, of course, but you can take that up with Magdalene.”

  A chirp of agreement came from Dulcie’s cleavage, where Merryman had settled in for a snooze. Dulcie stroked his head with a fingertip. “If Magdalene was behind hexing him, I’ll gut her myself,” she said.

  “Nor is Magdalene’s evisceration on my To-Do list,” Abby said. “There will be no fighting. This is Black and Blacker business, so please let me take care of it. Understood?” Her words were delivered in such a way that everyone nodded in ascent, including Fergal.

  “Um, would you like a cup of tea?” Astral began to make a fresh pot. She needed to keep busy. Her hands were all a-tingle from the constant adrenaline rushes of the morning. And having Abby Black in her kitchen, even on official Death business, was far too unsettling.

  Abby seemed surprised at the courtesy. “Yes, that would be nice.” She sounded pleased. “Thank you,” she added.

  “It’s what witches do in a crisis,” Astral said curtly, then felt a little mean. She’d been rude to Abby since she’d shown up, and all she’d wanted to do was help. She busied herself making tea, and brought it to the table, where she served everyone.

  “Thank you,” Abby said again as she picked up her cup and sipped. It was such a mundane, human thing to do that Astral smiled. A few minutes later, she smiled again because the conversation around the table flowed a lot easier than she’d thought it would, and Abby seemed truly relaxed, sipping and listening. Maybe she needed a vacation. Did Death do such things? Who stepped in if she needed to get away? Then she quickly shifted her gaze to Dulcie because Abby had caught her looking at her. Astral waited a bit, then snuck another glance at Abby, who was listening to something Keeva was saying to Fergal. The corner of her mouth curved upward in a slight smile and Astral really wanted to be someone who could make her do that.

  Then she remembered. This was Death. She had to stop thinking about their kiss, because there would never be a repeat, and it was absurd of her to remain hung up on her.

  Magdalene Curdle arrived twenty minutes later just as Astral was clearing away the tea things. Ping ushered her through the kitchen door and stood sentry as the High Priestess took a seat. She looked uneasy but did her best to disguise it.

  And, as usual, she was dressed immaculately, even for a summons from Death. She wore a grey wool pantsuit with a crisp white blouse and a signature diamond pendant, no doubt from Erigone’s collection. Her hair and makeup were perfect. She looked cool, composed, and pre-sharpened. Clearly ready for a fight. Syracuse wrapped around her ankles and flashed his pointed teeth.

  “I had nothing to do with that hex,” she said as soon as she was seated, not even waiting for a word of accusation. “I know nothing about it.” She
looked at Merryman nestled in Dulcie’s bra, fast asleep. “And for the record, I find it heinous, an attack on a familiar.”

  “Yet you knew about it.” Damián’s voice had an edge Astral had never heard before, and she approved. She hadn’t ever heard him come to his cousin’s aid like this.

  “The whole village is agog with the news,” Magdalene replied tartly. “It’s practically a declaration of war to hex a familiar, and as I said, I’ll have no part in it.”

  Astral frowned, not sure if this was self-victimizing or self-aggrandizing. Either way, her responses came across as rehearsed. She glanced around the table and accidently locked onto Abby’s dark gaze, and for a moment, they shared another affinity, because the glint in her eyes indicated she wasn’t swallowing it, either. Abby held her gaze for what seemed a long time, until the floor under her feet seemed to tilt. Abby turned away and Astral felt an immediate release, followed by a sense of longing, as if she were missing something.

  “What do you know?” Abby asked Magdalene, her voice quiet and dangerous.

  “Only that the little bird took ill early this morning.” Magdalene’s intonations came across as rigid. “Then I heard it had jumped in the cauldron. Next thing I know, Ms Ping calls to collect me, and I arrive to find it…resurrected?”

  Resurrected. Magdalene’s measure of the word made Astral’s hackles rise, as if she were implying that Abby had somehow overstepped in raising Merryman.

  “That’s all I know,” Magdalene said. She placed her hands flat on the table. “This unfortunate situation has nothing to do with me.”

  “I think it has quite a lot to do with you.” Abby pinned Magdalene with a hard stare. “The Plague Tree Coven is in disarray and has fractured into two opposing cells. Hardly an illustrious stewardship, and you its High Priestess.”

  “Are you saying Black and Blacker had nothing to do with that?” Magdalene hit back. “When I was summoned here this morning, I didn’t think I’d stand accused of harming a…” She glanced over at the bundle in Dulcie’s blouse. “A sparrow. Isn’t there something else you should be focussed on?” There was a hint of desperation in her voice, something unsaid, and Astral once again remembered that Abby and Magdalene were operating in tandem and the victim was her coven. Magdalene had come expecting something, but what?