No Fae

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By

Owain Oakwood

Chapters

Trading faces

On the Brink

Pokey in the sky

A Ton of Turners

Melvyn's grotto

Skulker's Rise

Thumb cheques

A lotta allotment

Tea and pitchforks

Number of the beast

Burning issues

The joy of maps

Findings in the fields

A message in stone

In The name of Ryan

Ewan know who

The hitchhiker

The ears have it.

Love from Liverpool

The number of the beast

The Gospel According to MacGillycuddy

Frying pans at dawn

An unexpected gift

Whoops, there goes NeoTokyo

The Illuminated book of darkness

The banks of the Derwent

Get in the Jar

The Green Dragon

Never meet your heroes

Melvyn's big entrance

When shall we three

The man from Morgana Tomorrow

Overground, underground, trading free

Other interests

Finding Daniel

Forms of transport

Where there's a will

An oath upon the Emerald Shard

Front row seats

Lighting the way

Wakey, wakey

Puppets ahoy!

Trading spaces

Taunting the void

Sniffer Dog

Trading faces

“He’s got no face!” exclaimed Argana Zeit, aghast.

Where one might be expected, the child had a fuzzy, featureless blur. Her gaze slid over it as she tried to look at him. The boy lay sleeping in his hospital bed, adorned by an array of tubes and instrumentation. A fly in a spiderweb of medical technology.  To avoid freaking the other patients out, the hospital had given him a private room. It was just him, Argana and the nurse.

She sucked in her lips, the expression on her freckled face thoughtful as an obvious problem occurred to her. “How does he breathe?” she asked.

The nurse, a tall man with heavy, well-inked arms and tied up hair, grunted.

“We performed a tracheotomy when he was brought in. How he managed before that, we’re not sure. He had acceptable oxygen levels in his blood, so he got it somehow. He gets most of his nutrients from the IV.”

“He’s in a coma?” she asked, hoping that he was. The alternative - to be awake and aware of having no mouth, nose or eyes - was too grim to contemplate.

“Yes. He came in that way. We suspected a consistent vegetable state. Like, vegetable state, get it?”

Argana stared at him, her green eyes narrowing in uncertainty. Clearly he was serious, in the sense that he was seriously joking about something. She just had no idea what.

“You’re going to have to run that by me again.”

He waved his arms noncommittally, backpedaling.

“Because he was picked up in… he was found… he was sort of folded up in a giant plant. Venus fly trap sort of a thing. Didn’t they tell you anything?”

“Of course they did!” she snapped. But in truth she’d been called in without any explanation. Had hoped to meet Constable Berkshire before she reached the Northern General. He’d been waylaid. Apparently, he had responsibilities, or some such excuse.

The nurse busied himself checking the tubes that ran through the boy’s hospital gown.

“So, anyway, we ran him down to the basement for an MRI. He may be unconscious, but he’s dreaming. Vividly.”

Argana made herself look at that missing face again, as if she would see flickering behind the non-existent eyelids. What would a faceless boy dream about?

“Has he got a name?”

“We know as much as you do. We’ve been calling him Elmo. On account of that was the character on his t-shirt when he came in. But no face, obviously! No dental records either. Not even – hey, have you seen his fingers?”

He took the boys hand in his own and turned it over for her to see. Argana took a magnifying glass from her backpack to be sure, but her first impression proved right. The fingertips were smooth. Nothing to ID him at all.

“Curious,” she said, having long since mastered the art of understatement.

“And you’re, what, some kind of weird things specialist, are you?” asked the nurse, uncertainly.

Argana felt a prickle of annoyance. In her early twenties with home bleached hair, blue jeans, and casual shoes she doubted she fit his stereotype of an expert. There was no justice. After all she’d been happy enough to accept that this tattooed hulk was a nurse.

Argana gave him an abrupt smile.

“I’m a paranormal investigator!”

She flipped out her Astral University of Tibet credentials for good measure. “Look! Dr Mazruk invited me because of the highly unnatural nature of this case.”

“Is that right? Well, good luck! Just keep it off the internet, ok? We don’t want the hospital flooded with vultures and sightseers.”

“Hey, I’m not an amateur!” It was a reflexive objection. She emphatically was an amateur, occasionally hired by Trotterwell police force because they were too small to have their own paranormal investigator. It was her separate day job that kept a roof over her head, but the nurse didn’t need to know that.

A shout echoed down the corridor.

“Rakesh, can you come to the desk a minute?”

“Yeah!” hollered the nurse, loud enough to make Argana jump. The boy in the bed didn’t even twitch, his sleep undisturbed. “I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t touch the machines, y’hear?”

The moment the nurse was gone she felt an instant desire to go and read the LCD displays. Maybe press the buttons. Turn that complicated looking dial. Why did people insist on putting these thoughts in her head? It was cruel! She distracted herself by going through the boy’s belongings. A pile of neatly folded clothes. Next to those, a pair of weirdly clean trainers. Also, a zip-lock bag containing items that had come from his pockets.

She started with the bag. When whatever had happened to him had happened, he’d been carrying a yale key, two of last year’s conkers, a tissue, and a five-pound note. She didn’t take any of the items out, in case she left her fingerprints on them. There was something odd about the note. For one thing, it didn’t have the Queen on either side of it. Nor King Chuck.

The clothes were next. They were stained with sap, presumably where he’d been cut free of the plant that had entangled him, but seemed otherwise clean. His blue t-shirt had a cartoon muppet on it, a big-eyed creature with a red face and semicircle mouth. That explained the boy’s adopted name, anyway.

She turned at the squeaky sound of police boots against disinfected vinyl, accompanied by the skitter of dog’s paws.

As the boots' owner entered the room, she smiled instantly in recognition.

“Berk!”

“Hello, Ms Zeit,” the newcomer responded. Constable Frederik Berkshire, a tall, square-shouldered man with a likeable face that stopped just shy of handsome. He’d been two years above her at school, but their lives had taken very different paths since. “Hey, I brought someone up with me.”

He hadn’t finished the sentence before a collie dog pushed past his knees, bounding into Argana’s arms when she stooped down. Her dog Max, his tail wagging with excitement, whom she’d had to leave outside by the main entrance.

Berkshire went over to the bed, looking with obvious discomfort at the stricken child. “Have you had time to form an opinion on this?”

“How’d you get Max in?” she asked, ignoring his question.

“I told them he was a police sniffer dog, obviously. Just make sure he behaves himself.”

“As if he’d do anything else!” She ruffled Max in the thick fur behind his black ears.

“They found the kid on our patch, you know. The moorland above Grindleford.”

“Oh. The nurse didn’t tell me that.” She put the T-shirt back on the pile of clothes, leaving it crumpled.

“He’s freaking me out a bit, to be honest,” said Berkshire. “Lying in the corner not staring at us. We should go somewhere else to discuss the case. On the way here I saw something that might have been a cafeteria. Wanna get a coffee?”

Argana tugged off the hairnet the hospital had made her wear, shaking out her bleached tresses into their usual mess. She stood up, smiling at him.

“You take me to all the best places!”

What Berkshire had described as a cafeteria didn’t live up to even that limited label. A place where the main corridor swelled out to become a sort of a room, it hosted plastic chairs and two vending machines. A kiosk in the corner was shut, a plastic mesh drawn down to keep thieving hands from an array of unappealing muffins. The two of them had it largely to themselves, sharing it with only a couple of elderly patients at the far end, poring over a crossword.

“I thought maybe it would be rude to discuss the boy in front of him,” he said. He pumped a succession of coins into the coffee vending machine.

“I’ll take a latte,” Argana told him. “You mean, like he’s got locked-in syndrome? He can hear, but he can’t communicate?”

“It’s unlikely, but it’s possible. He’s still got ears.”

The machine poured a nondescript liquid in a thin jet into a cardboard cup. Berkshire put the cup on top of the machine, and placed a second into the hatch, punching in his own choice.

“I’ll find us some seats,” she said.

“Ha! You do that. It’s heaving.”

She took Max to a table with a window view, coaxing him to sit under her chair. She’d chosen the one under the air conditioning not because she was too warm - she still wore her customary orange body warmer - but because its badly maintained rattling would guard their conversation from being overheard.

“One latte, one flat white,” said Berkshire, arriving with the drinks. He took the chair opposite her.

“Which one’s which?”

“Search me, I’m pretty sure it does the same thing no matter which button you press.”

She laughed, picking the closest and sipping it. It burned her tongue.

He blew carefully on his own.

“So also, I wanted to check, are you ok?” he asked.

“Sure. It’s just a bit hot,” she said, uncertainly.

“No, I meant after what happened with your flat. I heard it burnt down. People are saying it was a seance gone wrong.”

She gave him a wry smile.

“Yeah, that was a bit hot too.”

“Have you got somewhere to live?”

“No, these last two days we’ve been staying in a B&B. We’re on the first floor. It doesn’t suit Max.”

“Well, if you need anything…”

She shifted in her seat. It wasn’t the offer of help that she was uncomfortable with, but the knowledge that people thought the fire might have been her fault. She shifted to her most professional tone of voice.

“That boy up there? You’re in charge of the police investigation, then?”

“For now, yes. If I find enough leads that it gets interesting, it’ll go up the chain. Sometimes I envy you that you don’t answer to anyone.”

“Except you, when you’re hiring me.”

“We both know that’s an academic distinction.”

She laughed and looked away through the window, conceding what she took as a compliment. The view outside was mixed, overlooking one of the hospital’s carparks. Surrounding it were the repurposed industrial buildings that the age of steel had left behind, like a retreating glacier. The fact that Sheffield was one of the North’s hilliest cities meant they also had views of the tree-studded parkland beyond. Among it all, the brightest object was Berkshire’s police interceptor. It sat in a reserved bay, its blue-and-yellow neon markings glowing in the sunlight.

Turning back toward him, she asked,

“Not that I mind, but why are the police involved? It looks like a medical case to me.”

Berkshire’s voice turned grim.

“Are you serious? A boy’s got no face. If that isn’t grievous bodily harm, then it’s theft!”

“I suppose,” she said ruefully, sipping at her cup. It was warm and caffeinated, and it was best not to expect any more than that.

“Have you - have we - got any leads?”

“A couple of tourists called the ambulance, they said they were staying at the Big Man Inn, Hathersage, but there’s no pub of that name. I’d like to call them back in, but they left false names. Obviously, we’d like to keep a lid on this. It’s not exactly normal. The paramedics who were first on the scene are signed off with stress now.”

“What scene?” asked Argana, alarmed. Had this happened in an accident?

“He was found in a clump of bushes, up near Owler Tor.”

“What, just lying there?”

“Apparently. The tourists took the paramedics to him, where they collected him, along with the plant he was wrapped in. We sent botanists back later, but they couldn’t find the site.”

“You know botanists. They couldn’t find their bot with both anists,” she said, chuckling. “Did they say owt about it?”

“When we’re back at East Street Station, I’ll play you what we’ve got of the interviews with the medical staff. We’ve no idea who the kid is, by the way. No face, no dental records. No fingerprints.”

She leaned forward, whispering in quiet awe, only half serious.

“Are we sure he’s human?”

“As opposed to what? The docs took a DNA sample to see if they could get a match with an individual. Long shot, but they could have. Now, I didn’t ask if he was human, but is there a scientist alive who would sit on that information if he wasn’t?”

Argana stared back out of the window, rattling her fingers against the table.

“And just like that, they found him in the grass?”

“The undergrowth. The report says it was well overgrown.  Didn’t look like it had been disturbed in a long while.”

“It’s a well-trodden path, that one out by Grindleford. Why didn’t anyone see it before?”

“Beats me,” he gave an amused shrug. “People see what they want to. You learn that as a copper, y’know. People miss whatever’s right under their nose.”

“I guess.”

Berkshire slurped at his drink, now cool enough to be gulped.

“Did you see that fiver he had?”

“Yeah. It was dodgy, wasn’t it?”

“Kind of. Honestly, we thought it was a bad forgery until some bright spark pointed out it was a 1957 print. Lion on one side, Britannia on the other.”

Argana’s curiosity was getting the better of her.

“When I’ve drunk this, I’m going back up for another look at him.”

Berkshire shook his head.

“No. We had a to pull a lot of strings to get you even the twenty minutes you got.”

She gave him a pleading, mischievous look.

“I could sneak in.”

“I believe you could.” He nodded, his face conflicted. “But let it go, this time. Don’t do anything that will draw attention.”

She slapped her cup down on the table, making the sludge at the bottom spatter out.

“You’re paying me to investigate! If I can’t see Elmo again, then exactly what do you expect me to do?”

“I don’t know. That’s your bag. Sit in a dusty library. Go and see that grumpy old mentor of yours.”

“Mentor…?” For a moment she was flummoxed. The only people in her life with that title were at the Astral University of Tibet, with whom she was doing a parapsychology diploma. She never saw them in person, and she had the growing suspicion they weren’t even Tibetan. Then it struck her.

“You can’t mean MacGillycuddy!” She scoffed. “What’s that old goat know that I don’t?”

“Forty years in the exorcism business, I’m guessing. All I’m saying is, if you need to reach out to your contacts, you should.”

Admitting when she was out of her depth was not something that came easily to Argana. Realising that she was, even less so.

“It’s a classic story of a boy without a face. How complex can it be?”

Berkshire’s pocket rumbled. His moustache twitched with irritation.

“Ah, excuse me,” he muttered, pulling his phone from his breast pocket.

“Constable Berkshire,” he said, followed by a short conversation consisting mostly of code-words and electronic beeps with someone who Argana couldn’t hear. She feigned disinterest, staring away at the old couple at the end of the room. Really, though, she was trying to catch snatches of his exchange.

“That was Inspector Cianciolo,” he said, saving her the effort. “I’m sorry but, I’ve got to run. I’ve got to go check out some fresh vandalism.”

“Back in Trotterwell?” she asked. The bus to Sheffield had taken forever, and she didn’t plan to repeat the experience. “Can I grab a lift?”

“Ah…” Colour accumulated behind his ears, the way it always did when he sounded awkward. “The thing is, I’m not strictly allowed to let you into a police vehicle until the investigation into fire at your flat has concluded,” he said, only meeting her gaze when he’d finished talking. There was frustration in his brown eyes.

“Not strictly…?” she prompted, mischievously.

“I believe what I meant was: strictly not.”

“Sometimes I wish you were more maverick-cop-on-the-edge, Berk.”

On the Brink

It took him a while to get out of the city, but once he had, Constable Fred Berkshire enjoyed driving through the Peaks. He’d grown up in Trotterwell, a market town surrounded by countryside. Returning there, the narrow country lanes and undulating hills calmed his soul.  Given the stresses that could come with his job, he’d learned to seize his moments of relaxation when he could.

Brink Hall and its unkempt grounds were a little outside of Trotterwell itself. It was the kind of Victorian manor house that suited the word sprawling in the same way that a collapsing drunk did. Smoke rose from it as he caught a glimpse of it in the distance, making his heart race. For five long minutes the road dipped below the hill, hiding it from view. When he crested it, he was relieved to see he was mistaken, and the smoke came from a nearby field.

Someone must have seen him turn into the long drive, because the heavy iron gates scrolled apart by themselves, without him having to talk to the intercom. Even in its run-down state, Brink Hall was an impressive sight. Stone built, with tall windows, and extensions on its extensions, it was haunted by the ghost of its former magnificence.

People thronged on the gravel turning circle out front, busily pointing at the end wall. Their animated body language made their agitation clear. As he brought the car to a halt, Fred sighted the Hall’s owner. With his spiky blue hair and suit tailored to make him resemble a manga character, Akira Pixels was unmissable.

“Hello sir, what’s going on?” Fred asked, climbing out of the car. Without its air filters he was struck by the strong scent of woodsmoke, apparently drifting through the trees that lined the drive. The summer sun beat on his black uniform.

“Awright, Berk my dude, come along around the edge, they’ve tagged up my crib good.”

That was the thing with Akira. He changed up the way he talked every few weeks, forever chasing the zeitgeist, or even just the last film he’d watched. His job title changed just as frequently but was always a portmanteau. Crypfluencer one week, Digisigner the next. He led Fred around the end of the building.

A brick lean-to, the lowliest of the Hall’s extensions, had been defaced. White letters each a metre high had been daubed along the entire length. It didn’t look like the work of a graffiti artist, though. It was neat and readable. The uprights even had serifs. Along the way the word went over a side door, that probably served one of several utility rooms. Fred read it aloud.

“Satanist?”

“Yeah, it appeared overnight. That’s a crime, innit?”

“It’s generally considered that way, yes.” As he talked, Fred started taking photos of the damage.

“So…” Akira’s smile gleamed, his eyes suddenly cheeky. “You’re not going to ask me if I am a satanist?”

But Fred wasn’t going to rise to that.

“No, it’s not relevant. Whether you are you aren’t, they’ve still defaced your property, right?”

“Hmmm. Well, I’m going to enjoy watching you arrest them. Toaster, get over here!”

The side door opened, effectively changing the vandalism to say sat nist, which sounded to Fred like an off-brand navigation system. A thin man, a little younger than Akira with sandy hair, emerged from the doorway. He balanced a camcorder on one shoulder. Which, in an era where perfectly virable videos could be made on a phone, seemed more of an affectation than a statement of competence.

“Hi,” said Toaster.

“Hello sir.” Fred gave him a nod, having met him before. “Have you got any CCTV of this going up?”

“No, none of the cameras face that way. Anyway, Akira had the servers for them repurposed.”

“I needed more machines for mining,” Akira confirmed with a shrug. “You know, making Crypto. I’ve got my own coin. How do you not know this?"

“I’m not in the habit of following your antics, Mr Pixels.”

“Oh. My. God.” Akira shoved his fingers into his spiky hair and rocked his head from side to side. Toaster filmed him as he dragged his hand across his forehead as if swooning. “I’m wounded! Kiss me, Hardy!”

He fell dramatically into Toaster’s arms, displacing the camera as he did so. Toaster almost dropped him.

Fred sniffed at the air. The scent of smoke was getting stronger. The wind had changed direction, blowing it vigorously through Brink Hall grounds. It was blacker than it had been, the smell of woodsmoke overpowered by the pungent stench of burning rubber.

“That’s not your fire, is it, Nelson, sir?” he asked the cryptfluencer.

Akira shook off Toaster’s embrace, standing up.

“No, it isn’t! They’re harassing me, I tell you!”

Fred peered through the trees lining the drive, spying flames in the field beyond them.

“Perhaps I’ll go and have a word.”

“You do that!”

“This is me doing it!”

Straightening his uniform and clip-on tie, Berkshire strode towards the property boundary, following the smoke toward its source.

He glanced back, taking in the semi-circle of Akira’s followers that had formed around him. Toaster with his camera running, Akira rubbing his hands with a sort of manic glee.

“You all stay here,” he said, firmly. “I’m the Police officer, I’ll deal with this.”

There wasn’t an obvious way through the hedge. And even had there been, the smoke had become so dense it would have driven him back, eyes watering. Still, going the long way around at least gave him the opportunity to scope the situation. From the glimpses he got through the trees, a large fire had been set on cleared ground in the field next to Brink Hall. A man tended it.

The farm hand, leaning on the bonnet of his ancient tractor, watched impassively as Fred made his way down the drive, along the road, and then through the four-bar gate.

“Close it behind you!” he yelled, but Fred already had.

“Morning, sir,” he said as he got close enough to see the other man properly. Dressed in a checked shirt with the sleeves torn off, he was in his thirties with a wide brimmed hat over pinched eyes. He had a patchy beard that put Fred in mind of a scarecrow. Apart from the tractor, he had a serious poking stick consisting of a pitchfork gaffa-taped to a scaffold pole, which Fred eyed but assessed as too unwieldy to be considered a weapon.

“I’m Constable Fred Berkshire. This, er, is this your fire?

“There’s a law against burning waste on land I’m responsible for, is there?”

Berkshire grimaced.

“Well, yes, if it’s causing a nuisance.” Which was true, but it wasn’t the kind of law you could arrest someone for.

The man shrugged, but he first had to straighten up from his slouch in order to do so, robbing the gesture of its intended nonchalance.

“The wind changed direction. You going to arrest that too?”

“I’m not here to arrest anyone.”

Around ten thousand people lived in Trotterwell, and Fred proudly boasted that he could recognise half of them. But he didn’t know this man, which didn’t necessarily mean he was new, but it did mean that he wasn’t the farmer in charge. He’d be an employee, or a tenant.

“Who do you rent this farmland from? Is it the Jeffersons’?” He asked.

“Maybe.”

“Ok.” Fred bobbed his head noncommittally. He wasn’t getting anywhere with this line of enquiry. The Jeffersons were the second largest farming clan in the valley and had a lot of clout in the parish. They’d married into the Hardcastles, who had been MPs and councillors in the area for generations, and cared little for change. In a country beat like Trotterwell, there were two types of families that gave him grief. There were honest troublemakers, like the Scholes clan, forever getting into scrapes with their neighbours in the rougher end of town. And then there were the officious ones, who made trouble with their endless complaints about other people’s imagined infractions. The Jeffersons were a fine example of the latter, and the Hardcastles won their elections by appealing to that demographic.

As a youth Fred’d had his run-ins with them. Mostly sneaking into their hay-bale stores with the other teenagers. His parents had been keen for him to integrate with rural life, although that wasn’t what they’d had in mind. Mostly they’d insisted on taking him to agricultural shows.

Where, as it happened, he’d learnt a great deal about vintage farm equipment. And that, he thought, might just give him a way in with the farm hand.

He walked closer, patting his palm against the bonnet of the tractor so that it rang like a steel drum, which is basically what it was.

“Massey-Ferguson, 1968. You don’t see a lot of them around. Good nick, too. I’m guessing you have to get the enamel paint especially mixed.”

The man took a breath, ready to protest the contact with his machine. But his surprise at Fred’s knowledge reached for the clutch of his mind and switched gears.

“You’ve got good eyes there, Constable.”

“You don’t forget them. I saw my first one when I was 12, at the Derby County show. Oswald Turner had a collection of them.”

“You’re kidding me! That might even be the show where my father picked this up.”

“It couldn’t have been,” said Fred, laying on the earnestness. “That one didn’t look half as good as this.”

The farm hand fought with himself to stop his smile from showing, failed, and beamed with pride. Fred took his opening. “What’s your name, fellah?”

“I’m Gilbert Brown.”

“Now, what you’ve got here Gilbert is a fire which, as you say, you can happily burn on land you’re tending. But what I’m seeing on the top is old tires and those, those you need to dispose of properly. Otherwise, the department for the environment gets involved.”

“They caught fire by accident…”

Fred raised his hands, elbows loose, indicating generosity.

“Relax. Believe me when I say I don’t enjoy paperwork. So, if you were to, I dunno, hook some more of those off before they catch fire by accident too, I think we could call it quits.”

“Yeah, ok. But don’t tell Mrs Jefferson, alright?”

Moving with the caution the fire demanded, Gilbert used his combi-pole to hook the first of the tires down. One side had melted and smelt foul but wasn’t yet ablaze. He started on the second.

Fred rubbed his square chin thoughtfully. Mrs Jefferson. That would have to be Gracie Jefferson, eldest daughter of Caleb Jefferson, who himself had run the clan for as long as Fred could remember. He knew that the patriarch had been ill, he hadn’t heard that the old man had passed.

“She doesn’t have to know. But you have to do something for me. Tell me about the graffiti.”

“What graffiti?” Gilbert asked, as he hooked the next tire. But he was a bad liar, and his hands glitched as he moved.

“Over there.” Berkshire pointed. At that distance, and with the trees in the way, the writing wasn’t as clear as he would have liked for this kind of confrontation. But it could be seen, and that would have to be enough.

Gilbert paused, making a show of shading his eyes against the sun and squinting.

“Where….”

“There!”

“Oh!” His jaw worked in a pantomime of surprise. “Looks like someone vandalised Brink Hall.”

“It does, doesn’t it? Do you want to, maybe, take a guess as to what it says?”

“It says - it’s kind of hard to read from here. It - it says 'Stalinist', doesn’t it? Do you think Marxists did it?”

Fred raised an eyebrow fiercely enough that it disappeared into his police helmet.

“You know damn well it says 'satanist'.”

“Like Santana… the guitarist?” Gilbert’s voice rose in pitch in direct correlation with his implausibility.

“How about you tell me what this is all about?”

Gilbert slumped, defeated. Dishonesty didn’t seem to come naturally to him.

“They’re teed off with Akira Pixels for his demon summoning,” he said quietly.

“His what now?”

“Yeah, he’s got this website, it summons demons for you. I mean, just search for it. It’s out there.”

“Ok.” Fred wrote that down in his notebook.

Gilbert watched him scribbling things down, alarmed. But Fred had another question. “Who is the ‘they’ that you’re talking about? The Jeffersons?”

Gilbert’s voice took on a pleading tone, clearly done talking.

“Look man, they just pay me. I swear I had nothing to do with the graffiti. We’ve got a cottage at the end of the lane, we rent from the Jeffersons. If Mrs Jefferson says 'burn a pile of rubbish in the corner of the east field', I’ll do it. If she says summat else, I’ll do that too. They’ve been good to us.”

And they say feudalism’s dead, Fred thought.

Walking back to his car, he wondered if he shouldn’t call Argana. Demons and Satanism, it all sounded more like her gig than his. But only if there was any truth to it. After all, both vandalism and defamation were entirely un-supernatural crimes. Perhaps it was just his guilt for leaving her at the station, but he came down on the side of calling her. Just in case. Just to keep her in the loop.

“Wassup Berk?” she answered, the line crackly. “Got any news on Junior No-Face?”

“Ah, no, Ms Zeit. I’m over at Brink Hall. Listen, did you know if Akira Pixels is into demon summoning?”

There was a garbled sound at the end of the line that might have been chortling.

“He couldn’t even if he wanted to!”

“I guess that’s reassuring.”

“Listen Berk, we’re right about to—”

The call cut off abruptly, which was genuinely not alarming. Argana regularly hung up on him, although usually she had the courtesy to finish her sentence first.

Pokey in the sky

A little earlier on, still slightly sulky at Berkshire for not giving her a lift, Argana made her way to the city bus station. She bought herself a breadcake at a kiosk, stuffed with chicken and lettuce.

More formally called the interchange, the station consisted of parallel waiting areas. Beige, echoey spaces with tiled floors and glass walls that busses and coaches could pull up on either side of. Naturally, being Sheffield, there were plenty of slopes and flights of stairs interrupting what in another city would have been flat floors.

Clusters of fixed plastic chairs were herded into corrals in each waiting zone. She settled herself into one, persuaded Max to lie under the adjacent chair, and wait she did.

For as long as it took to eat her sandwich, anyway. By that point she’d taken the time to look at the overhead monitors. They gave what was, at least in theory, up to date information.

“Ah, maaaaan,” she moaned. “Max, they’ve cancelled the 218.”

Max picked up his ears, coming out from under the chair. Alerted by her tone of voice, as much as his name.

She bustled out past other equally disappointed passengers, talking to the dog as she went.

“We’ll be another hour here. So, I’m thinking, how about we head over to Grindleford instead, seeing as that’s where Elmo was found? We’ll just be a girl and her dog, looking for clues. Sound good, boy? We can get the bus from Grindleford to Trotterwell after.”

Max trotted after her, following her down the hill to the train station.

A little later they were rattling out along the Hope Valley line on the Manchester train. The rickety one that stopped at every point, big or small, en route as it traversed the Peak District. It had only two carriages, both of them unfathomably old. Nothing more technical than the seat upholstery had ever been upgraded. On the upside this gave it a reassuring familiarity. The downside, less reassuringly, was a nagging doubt in everything from its brakes to its bogeys.

Argana and Max had settled themselves on a bench seat near the back. There she daydreamed, watching the landscape speed by the windows. Steep sided valleys opened into sheep-studded vistas, always in green, the trees on the lower levels hung with moss.

Being mid-day, the carriage was two thirds full. At rush hour it would be standing room only. Day trippers replaced the absent commuters. Elderly hikers took up most spaces, along with a group of truant-playing teenagers crowded around a phone.

It wasn’t until they’d gone past Dore & Totley that she realised they were being watched.

A man in his thirties, conspicuous for being neither old nor young, leant against the luggage rack at the far end. Which was odd in itself, when there were seats available. He wore a hoodie in striped tones of red, and thick braids of dark hair half hid his nervous expression. When she caught him looking at her, he glanced away, shuddering slightly. He took a sudden interest in the newspaper that had, until that point, merely been folded under his arm.

Well, she wouldn’t have to worry long. They were only a few miles from Grindleford, after the tunnel that came before it, where she could get off and leave the creep behind.

Her phone rang. It was Berkshire.

“Wassup Berk? Got any news on Junior No-Face?”

The line buzzed, the steep hillsides eating most of Berk’s reply. “…Akira Pixels is into demon summoning?”

She laughed.

“He couldn’t even if he wanted to!”

Still staring out of the window, she caught sight of the maw of the tunnel, just before the train turned into it. Berk said something, but she didn’t catch it.

“Listen Berk, I’m right about to go into a tunnel. I’ll have to call you back.”

The darkness swallowed them. Dim emergency lights came up, illuminating only the interior the train, as if nothing else existed. They’d entered a vast, three-mile-long tunnel where the railway had been cut through the hill. A hundred metres of rock and soil convincingly cut off the signal to her phone. The air smelt dank where it pressed through the rickety windows. The sound was worse, a cacophony of rattling parts.

She tried not to take her eyes off the stranger, sat at the far end of the carriage, in case he tried anything. That meant she saw the windows only in her peripheral vision. Dark rock walls careened, barely lit from the carriage. Here and there a service light in the tunnel itself flashed past, illuminating a narrow section of wall.

The stranger was uncomfortable under her gaze. He shuffled his newspaper, raising it in front of his face. He wasn’t reading it, she surmised, because it was upside down. And besides, she could see that he was watching her in the reflection of the window halfway between them.

“Subtle,” she muttered, causing Max’s ears to twitch.

Then the dog was alert and barking. Half a second later, the lights cut out.

Unable to see anything, she instinctively caught hold of his collar, keeping him close.

She listened, but between the train’s ferocious rattling and Max’s barking, she made nothing out. The darkness was impenetrable. Even the emergency lights had gone out. The phone screens too, to the audible consternation of the teenage contingent who it turned out knew some very entertaining swearword combinations.

Only for an instant did she see anything, blinking against the sudden flash of light as something whizzed by the outside of the train. A mesmerising green light, very intense, seeming to come from within the rock itself. And then it was gone.

The carriage lights came up.

With sudden alarm she saw that her stalker had gone, leaving only his newspaper behind, unread. Letting go of Max’s collar, she looked hastily around, but saw no sign of him.

“It’s ok, we’ll check for him when we get off the train,” she told the dog, although the reassurance was for herself really.

No one else seemed concerned by the disappearance or had even noticed. The teenagers were laughing and photographing each other, pulling faces of pretend horror. It would make a good story for someone.

Moving past them to the end of the carriage, she picked up the newspaper. It was tabloid sized. Red letters spelled out its name, The Mundane Chronicle, of which she had never heard. Although it had looked bulky enough, when she opened it, she found it was made of only a single sheet.

Before she could read it, the words slid off it, tumbling to the floor like black confetti. She gasped and dropped it.

“Cor, litter louts, everywhere,” grumbled someone nearby, in a whisper that she was clearly meant to overhear.

She looked down at her feet, where she’d dropped the newspaper. A perfectly ordinary chip wrapper lay there, grey and greasy. Either she was going mad, or the stalker wasn’t what he seemed. And she didn’t know which was worse.

As planned, Argana and Max got off the train at Grindleford. The relief when the train had burst into daylight had been palpable, doubly so now they were off it and no one was following them. The vanishing man had been one thing - he could have hidden in the next carriage - but she couldn’t shake the memory of the strange paper.

Grindleford didn’t have a station in the normal sense of the word, just a single platform on either side, barely wider than a pavement. What had once been the station building had long since been converted into a cafe.

“Let’s go see where they found Elmo,” she told Max.

They crossed the track via a bridge that led them into the steeply sloping woodland that clung to either side of Padley Gorge. A dense canopy of oak and birch trees hid them from the sun. By the time they’d crossed the river and ascended the many steps cut into the hillside, Argana was very out of breath. Beyond that was moorland, tumbling waves of heathers and tall grasses, edged by bracken and punctuated with rare trees, lone and twisted.

It was here that the trail ran cold. Unlike Argana, who was suffering in the rapidly warming sunlight. She took off her body-warmer, tucking it through the straps of her backpack. Apart from his visible panting, the heat bothered Max less. They spent an hour or more criss-crossing the field, increasingly convinced there was nothing to find in its many acres.

It sloped up hill, its upper edge bounded by the A6187 and all other sides by woodland. Off to Argana's right, the lumpen mass of Owler Tor squatted between ground and sky, a confluence of massive boulders that seemed to watch them. That marked the limit of their search area.

They found sheep tracks, people tracks, clumps of bracken, but nothing anywhere that suggested a child had been found amid the brambles. She stopped in the shade of a tree, gnarled like a horde of snakes petrified in the act of wrestling.

“You’d think,” she said reluctantly, “that the hiding place of a six-foot Brussels sprout would be an easy thing to spot.”

Max sat back on his haunches, panting in the hot sun.

“You and me both,” she said. “Let’s find somewhere for a drink, shall we?”

At least it would be easier going back down.

Some twenty minutes later, Argana was ensconced in the corner of the cafe, sipping an americano. Max wasn’t allowed up onto the bench - she had asked - but stayed near her feet, lapping at a steel bowl put out for him by the owners. It was a crowded place, with more small tables packed in than its dimensions merited, resulting in her being a lot closer to jostling customers than she was entirely comfortable with. Most were either young families or grizzled hikers.

Being alone, Argana settled into people watching. While others might do so out of a sense of empathy, of seeking common humanity, her motivation was curiosity. Or, as it was commonly known, nosiness. Across from her, side on so that he couldn’t see her watching, a curly haired man ate a bowl of chips while doing a crossword. His hand kept going to the deep side pocket of his coat, subconsciously checking some item within it. Likely it was a vape or a compass. It couldn’t be a phone because he hadn’t pulled it out to look at it.

A middle-aged woman in a green wax jacket and hiking gaiters joined him, bringing a bowl of soup with her.

“Alright Benny, how’s the mouse?”

Puffy white hair obscured her face like clouds climbing a potato shaped mountain. She scraped the opposite chair out.

The man apparently named Benny grunted some reply. Argana’s attention wondered.

It was brought sharply back minutes later when the new arrival turned the conversation back to Elmo.

“It’s brought in a lot of tourists, hasn’t it?” The woman was saying. “I mean, not the usual sort, not your dog-and-two-kids, shut-the-gate-behind-them types. Funny ones. You know, the mawkish sort.”

Benny leaned back in his chair, stretching so that he could get his hands to his pockets. A tiny furry face appeared, pushing around his fingers. Two small eyes that were simultaneously both black and bright, a face halfway between a cat’s and a rat’s. Max, lying at Argana’s feet, stirred anxiously. She nudged him to stop him barking.

In an instant, the ferret was half out, paws up on the table, sniffing at Benny’s plate. He pushed the animal gently back into its hiding place.

“Come on now, Pokey, you’ll get us thrown out. What are you on about, Val?”

“The kid, Benny. The kid. You been under a rock, or something?”

Benny laughed, smiling ruefully.

“Yeah. Yeah, I have, but I gave that up a long time ago. What about this kid?”

By this point, Argana was well and truly hooked on their conversation. She’d been stealing glances, had even tried watching their reflections in the bend of a spoon, but that had made them look like weird security footage. Now she held the mug of coffee to her face, as if she was sipping it, so she could watch them just over the top. That worked fine.

“Stop staring,” she whispered to Max, who hadn’t taken his eyes off the ferret.

“The one with…” Rod looked around for eavesdroppers, before lowering voice, “…no f-”

He stopped abruptly, looking across at Argana. She lifted her hand to her head, scratching at her temple so that her long messy hair fell across her face.

“Here, that dog’s watching us!”

“What dog?”

“That one!”

Val laughed.

“He just wants to eat Pokey.”

The ferret took this cue to bury itself back in Benny’s coat.

Benny put his head on one side.

“Handsome dog, though.”

Argana gave up the pretence and pushed out her chair, going over to them. Max remained where he was, watching Benny’s pocket carefully.

“Hi,” she told them, “I’m sorry, I overhead you talking, I can’t help myself. I’m curious.”

Benny looked quizzically at his friend.

“It’s like you said, Val, it’s bringing all sorts.”

Val nudged him, looking Argana up and down.

“She’s too colourful to be mawkish. Look, she’s got a red jumper on!”

“Never.”  Benny folded his arms, making his jacket squeak. “That’s orange.”

“The website said Autumn Nectarine,” Argana told them. “You’re both wrong.”

“So’s whoever was growing nectarines in autumn, love. Pull up a chair.”

Argana shrugged.

“This is Max. Come here, boy.”

Max came out from under the table, wagging his tail. He respectfully stayed the opposite side of her from the ferret, who was giving him the side eye. Val’s face softened instantly. She stooped and grasped Max’s face in both hands, whispering something Argana didn’t catch, then patted him on the side so that his ribs boomed.

By the time she’d stood up again, Argana was already seated at the table, setting her coffee down.

“So, about this boy?” she said brightly. “Also, nice ferret.”

“His name’s Pokey,” rumbled Benny. He fixed his eyes on Val, who’d sat down again. “Yeah, what about the boy?”

Val took a deep preparatory breath. Her moment was punctured by a woman in full biker leathers, who leaned over to urge her on.

“For the love of God, woman, stop hopping up and down and just tell them. The whole village knows anyway.”

Val shook her shoulders out and rubbed at her scalp, her fingers disappearing into the billowing white hair as she scratched. Benny sighed, tiring of the theatrics. Val cracked her knuckles.

The biker leaned past her again. “They found a boy up on the long field last Wednesday,” she said, cutting in ahead of Val. “He’d got no face.”

“God in heaven! That’s awful,” blurted Argana, feigning surprise.

“Oh, don’t worry love, he’s alive. And they think, you know, that maybe they can get his face back.”

Benny waved his arms explosively, nearly spilling Pokey from his pocket.

“What the hell happened to his face? Was he attacked? Was it dogs?” He glanced at Max. “No offence, little buddy.”

“It turns out—” started the biker.

Val’s turn to cut her off this time, shouting, “It was magic! His face magically disappeared!”

By this point every conversation in the cafe had fallen silent. All eyes were turned to them. Some customers shook their heads, others stared, one or two surreptitiously filmed, hoping that things were going to kick off.

“What?” Val demanded. “Everyone knows it.”

There was a moment of hush, broken by two dozen voices muttering simultaneously.

“So, he’s going to be ok, right?” asked Benny, looking imploringly at Val.

“If I have anything to do with it.” Argana gave his shoulder a squeeze.

Val’s eyebrows gathered together, as dark as her barnet was white.

“Why, who are you?”

“Argana Zeit. Paranormal Investigator.” She waved her Astral University of Tibet ID.

“Nice to meet you,” Val murmured. “But I’ve got to go. Fences to check, stiles to mend.”

“Me too.” Benny stuffed the final morsel of cake into his pocket. “I’m off down the Little John, changing the hanging baskets.”

“There where-did-you-say-now?” Argana caught his arm.

“The Little John Inn. In Hathersage.”

She laughed with joy and exasperation.

“Little John! Big man Inn… I’m going that way. Now. Wanna walk with me?”

He looked puzzled, but he nodded anyway.

“No. But I’ve got my van with me if you want a lift, kid?”

Val left, patting her friend on the back as she went.

“Watch yourself, Benny, this one’s crazy and no mistake.”

One slow drive later, and Argana knew everything there was to know about ferrets, whether she wanted to or not. Mostly, she favoured the 'wanted to', but after a certain point in Benny’s description of their smells and mating habits, it had gotten too much. Max, unburdened by the need to make conversation, had thoroughly enjoyed the journey. Particularly the opportunities it afforded him to stick his nose out the window and smell the hedgerows and brooks passing by.

As for their journey’s end, the Little John Inn sat on a cambered junction at one end of Hathersage’s main road. It was a three-story stone building with curved bay windows facing the road, and lush planters hanging from the lower floors. Faded union jacks flanked a 'dogs welcome’ sign by the door. In the carpark around the side, a couple was just leaving.

Two humans, one dog and a ferret went in, their eyes taking a few seconds to adjust from the bright sky outside the darkened interior. There was a bar one way, and a hotel desk the other. Customers sat at dark wood tables, lunching on beer and ploughman’s. Argana couldn’t work out which of the staff she needed to talk to though, nor even be entirely sure who was and wasn’t staff. None of them had uniforms.

Benny saved her the mental effort by hollering at the manager.

“Oi, Jack, just gonna sort planters out. It’s a'right if I borrow the stepladder out the shed, isn’t it?”

Jack was a gangly, middle-aged fellow with a drinker’s paunch interrupting the otherwise vertical lines of his body. He had thundercloud eyebrows that looked well used to administering both stern talkings-to to rowdy customers and jovial greetings. He greeted Benny enthusiastically, clapping him on the shoulder.

They had a brief conversation about Benny’s work, and then both men turned away from one another.

“Jack!” Argana chose her moment, before the landlord could set off about his next task, whatever that was.

“Hello love, what’ll it be?”

“I was hoping to ask you something, about a couple of your guests?”

“Oh aye?” He started pulling wine glasses from the dishwasher, giving them a quick buff, and hanging them above the bar. “You with Benny, are you?”

“We drove over together from Grindleford.”

“Go on then, shoot. Whataya want to know.?”

“Well,” she dropped her voice to a whisper, “it’s the about the boy. The people who found him, are they still here?”

When Jack laughed, his eyebrows nearly fell off his face.

“That’s no secret. The Arbuthnots. They just paid up. Literally seconds before you walked in. You might catch—”

He didn’t get to finish the sentence, she was already running out of the door.

At the top end of the car park, the Arbuthnots were loading their bags into the boot of a red Mercedes. A logo on the side of their car, a stylised vinyl record, bore the words ‘Terpsichore Disco’. They were seconds away from leaving, unless they were the kind of people who set up their satnav before a journey started. A level of preparation that Argana had never mastered.

“Hey!” she yelled, running up to them.

The pair turned toward her. Young looking thirty-somethings, with colourful hair and dark, band style t-shirts. The man, seeing her a second after his wife, jumped the most, clearly believing Argana was going to run right into him. She didn’t. Not quite.

“Er, are you ok? You lost?” Mrs Arbuthnot asked. She was taller and older than her partner, and leggy in a way that reminded Argana of a daddy long-legs.

“No, I’m…” she waved her ID at them, “…with the police, you know.”

“If this is about the number plate,” said Mr Arbuthnot, worry on his blunt face, “it’s only temporary, I’ve got the proper one in…”

“Never mind that, it’s about the boy you found.”

“We’ve been advised not to talk to any journalists,” he said.

“I’m part of the investigating team. How’d you find him?”

“Look, we’ve been through all of this,” he said, fidgeting. “We were just wandering around, you know. We’d come for Demoncoynfest…”

“We’re investors,” Mrs Arbuthnot interrupted, jabbing her thumbs at her chest.

They wore identical T-shirts, black with neon logos. Argana had taken them to be band designs but saw now that they weren’t. The image was of a capital D with two lines drawn vertically through it, in the universal iconography of currency. There was a flaming background and, in a bit of an attempt to separate it from the presumably 407 other cryptocoins that started with the letter D, one of the lines was a trident and the other ended in the arrowhead shape of a demon’s tail.

“Cute t-shirts,” Argana observed. She’d been counting on her vague connection to the police to get them to open up. Now it seemed she’d be better leveraging her personal friendship with Akira Pixels. “I’ve been out to Brink Hall a few times, you know—”

“Whoah! Damn, your dog! What’s wrong with it?!” Mrs Arbuthnot backed up so rapidly she nearly tumbled into the open boot of the car. The whites shone all around her terrified eyes.

Argana whirled around, alarmed. But Max was doing nothing more alarming than watching Benny water the flowers.

“What? He just likes to know what people are doing. Here, meet him he’s lovely…”

The woman started to back along the side of the car, mouth turned over in fright, hands waving in front of her.

“No… no…”

Mr Arbuthnot looked between the two women, poised to move but without knowing which way to go. Whatever she was seeing, he wasn’t.

“He doesn’t bite,” said Argana, puzzled. “Come here, boy!”

Max hesitated, tipping his head on one side. He was getting very conflicting signals.

“His eyes!” said Mrs Arbuthnot, pointing. “His eyes!”

Her husband made up his mind. He pulled her close by her bicep, before wrapping his arm around her.

“He looks fine to me, love. Just a normal dog.”

“What about his eyes?” asked Argana.

“Let’s go Jess. Don’t get yourself wound up…”

“I’m telling you, his eyes glow! Like searchlights!”

She began to wail. Mr Arbuthnot let go of her, stepping toward Argana.

“You did this! You and your stupid hound. Go on, just beggar off with your questions!”

“But—”

“Shoo! Scram! Vamoose!” He waved his arms like he was clearing geese off his lawn.

“She started it,” muttered Argana, sulkily. But she retreated to the doorway of the Little John anyway, summoning Max to her side as she went.

Mr Arbuthnot slammed the boot shut and the tourists climbed into the front of the car. He reversed out with unnecessary haste and squealed the car out into the junction. Mrs Arbuthnot pressed her shaking face to the side window, watching Max.

With a shudder that clenched her shoulder blades together, Argana sensed something behind her.

Benny’s ladder, tilted away from the wall, momentarily balancing in empty air. The Mercedes had just clipped it. There was just time for his eyes to meet hers, baffled, before the ladder remembered which way gravity was. Argana reached for it, but it was too late. Ladder and handyman alike crashed to the ground, followed a second later by the watering can.

“What on earth was that about?” asked Benny, still sprawled on the floor, propped up by his arms behind him.

“Is your ferret ok? Are you ok?” Argana stepped over and offered him a hand to pull him up. He was a good bit heavier than her, and she had to properly squat into her legs and lean back to avoid simply being pulled over.

He checked his pockets, frantically.

“Pokey - I can’t….”

Max barked softly, drawing their attention, staring upward with his ears raised.

Argana followed his line of sight.

“Your ferret’s fine.”

Above them a hanging basket swung like a pendulum, set in motion by Benny’s fall. And clinging to its edge, looking like this happened every day and was no problem at all, there was Pokey.

“He’s got keen eyes, your Max.” Benny patted the dog once on the head, then stretched both arms up to the planter. The ferret at once jumped down, spiralling around his body until he found his way back into his pocket.

“He has,” Argana said approvingly, “but they don’t glow, do they?”

“I’d say not.”

As she talked to Benny, Argana spotted something herself. A piece of black metal, about 6 centimetres long, near where the Arbuthnots had loaded their car. She went to pick it up.

“They left something.”

“Well don’t go returning it, not after they nearly ran us over!” called Benny.

She’d hoped the item was something she could interrogate, like a USB stick or a broken wand. But it was a bottle opener, in glossy black, with ‘Demoncoynfest’ written on one side. Next to that, the same logo as on the T-Shirts. The letter D with the trident and forked tail. Shrugging, she put it in her pocket.

Meanwhile, Benny had set his ladder up again, resuming his work on the hanging baskets.

“It was nice meeting you,” she called out to him. “We’ve got to go catch our bus now.”

“See you around, kid.”

Walking up through the town toward the bus stop, Argana pondered the situation. Max had his same adoring blue eyes as ever. They were definitely not glowing. Nor was his nose - not that anyone had suggested that, but it would have been cool at Christmas, she could have velcroed antlers to him. He’d have made a great Rudolf.

“Perhaps she’s just crackers,” she said to herself. But it was too easy to dismiss the paranormal that way.

Could the woman be possessed by a mischievous ghost? But if she had was, Max would have smelt the spirit on her…

Argana stopped in her tracks.

“Max, can you see ghosts?”

Max blinked and wiggled an ear.

Argana grinned. Clearly Mrs Arbuthnot didn’t know it, but she had a power. A kind of sight that let her see things in a different way, things hidden from other people. All she’d seen was Max’s ghost-sensing abilities, taught to him when he was a puppy, before he’d left the institute. That’s what had freaked her out.

There were only a few ways to acquire that kind of ability, and all were rare. Psychics could be born with it. The occasional spirit guide gifted it to a medium. Witches, warlocks and wizards could learn it or earn it through great personal effort. But all these approaches resulted in knowing about it, which Mrs Arbuthnot obviously didn’t. There was only one group Argana could think of who could gift the power purely as a prank.

The fae.

For some reason, Mrs Arbuthnot had the faesight. Which went someway to explaining why she had spotted Elmo when thousands of other walkers must have simply passed him by on the hill paths.

They reached the bus stop. The view was lush, stretching over the tapestry hills, but Argana was too busy taking her phone out to enjoy it. She needed to call Berkshire, let him know the fae were behind whatever happened to Elmo.

A Ton of Turners

Constable Fred Berkshire drove out to Turner’s Farm, three miles outside of Trotterwell. Most farms had landscape type names; Three Oak Farm, Low Field Farm, Yew Tree Farm. There were thousands of them. That Turner's Farm was, well, Turner's Farm was a tribute to his family’s longevity in the valley. As the high hedges zipped fast, Fred re-ran his short conversation with Argana in his mind.

“You won’t believe this,” she’d said. “It’s the fae.”

Of course he’d believed her. He always did, providing she was telling him about things that had happened. If it was about something that was still to happen, for example that she was going to solve everything in the next half hour and that it wouldn’t cause him any trouble, that’s when he took it with a pinch of the proverbial. He’d told her as much. The first bit, anyway.

“Which fairies?” he’d asked.

“The fae. Didn’t I just say so?”

“But there’s, what? Boggarts, changelings, water spirits…” He’d said, reeling a list of all the creatures he could remember encountering with the investigator, or her telling him about later. “And why’d they want to steal a face?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet. I’m kind of out of leads, there’s just—”

“The Turners? I’ll head out that way and ask them some questions.”

“Thanks Berk, you’re a star. I’d come too, but I’m moving my stuff into Melvyn’s place. He’s going to put me up for a couple of weeks while I find a new flat.”

“Melvyn, eh?” That made sense, in a way. Melvyn Drake was an amateur magician who lived over a garage in a storage space he’d converted into an Aladdin’s cave. He and Argana were good friends. Although they shared an interest in the uncanny, Melvyn, in Fred’s experience, got into a lot less trouble.

She’d not sounded impressed when she added,

“The only other offer I got was from Ewan Enoch. Y’know, the druid. Ughh.”

“Doesn’t he live in a converted pigsty?”

“Literally.”

“He probably wanted you to help him muck out.”

“Don’t even joke.”

And that had been it. As always, she’d hung up.

He took a fork in the road, slightly too fast for the vehicle he was in. One of his colleagues had taken the station’s only interceptor, so he’d checked out something that had been seized in from local criminals. That was an approach that worked well for his peers in Manchester, where they confiscated Mercs from drug dealers on a regular basis. Not so much in Trotterwell. He was driving an ice cream van, confiscated for hygiene infractions. Its suspension objected noisily to anything over 40mph. Or corners. Or bumps in the road. It only let up its non-stop complaining when he reached the farm gates. It was a miracle the police sign magnetically attached to the side hadn’t bounced off yet.

A couple of farm hands were watching him with such quizzical expressions that he gave the blue light a quick blip, just to let them know who he was.

“Hello Berkshire.” A young woman in dungarees gave him an entertained smile as she worked the gate latch. “Nice wheels, officer.” This was Sally, one of the farmer’s just about grown-up children.

He took one look at the rutted track behind her. The van wouldn’t like that, not at all, and he couldn’t take any more of its rattling. Putting his helmet on, he hopped out of the cab.

“Don’t worry about that, I’ll walk down. Is Mr Turner in?”

“I’m right here mate,” said the second farm hand, also in his twenties, a big lad in a checked shirt. Sally’s brother.

“We’re all Turners.” Sally spread her arms out and spun, indicating the hills around them. “You want to throw a stick, bobby? You’ll hit a dozen Mr Turners, if you can throw a mile or two.”

“Hey,” said Berkshire, “you know who I mean. Phil Turner.”

“Ah, Farmer Turner! Why didn’t you say so. Come on down then, Berkshire.”

He followed her down the path toward the farm complex, shaking his head in amused perplexity. There had to be as many Farmer Turners as there were Mr Turners. In the highlands, he believed, the chief of the clan would be The MacScottsman of the glen. Perhaps this was the same deal, a strange neo-feudalism in which the head of the family was the Farmer Turner.

Out-of-towners expected farms to be picturesque, like the cottages they rented out on their periphery. But Berkshire was used to the truth, that the working heart of Turners farm was always one step from pure chaos. The knocked together stone cottages would have been pretty, sure, had it not been for the rusting girders-and-corrugated-iron barn tacked on the back. Nor was it helped by the half-emptied palettes, plastic barrels, cannibalised tractors and all the other partially completed projects that occupied the yard.

“Oh, just go on in,” the woman told him when he knocked on the low, broad door.

He did so, taking his helmet off and still having to duck. It opened straight into the nerve centre of Turners’ Farm, which is to say the kitchen. A dog lay in front of an unlit fire. Pans hung from the already low beams, making them even more bonce-threatening. A plastic cover printed in yellow check covered an oval table, protecting it from wooden boxes of dirty root vegetables. Farmer Turner, standing at the far end, craned his neck around as Fred came in. He was up to his elbows in froth, hands in the Belfast sink in front of him.

“Mr- Farmer Turner,” said Fred, standing on the doormat. He’d once joked with Argana that cops and vampires had that in common, that they wouldn’t come in until invited. She’d fixed him with a serious expression and asked him what about warrants.

“Don’t stand there like a numpty, Fred, put your feet up, I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Farmer Turner put a bottle on the drainer, next to another five the same. Wide topped bottles with measuring lines on the side, a line of rubber teats next to them. He rubbed his hands dry and sat down across the table from Fred. A stout man, he was old enough for the wind to have carved and hardened his face, young enough that his muscles were full beneath his canvas shirt. His face was wide and stubbled, his wiry hair cropped short.

Fred looked at the bottles.

“You expecting some large babies?”

“I’ve got enough already. Lambing season, isn’t it? There’s always a couple of ewes lost in childbirth. Normally, I can find them a foster-mother. But there’s always a couple that are sick, or whatever.”

“And you hand rear those?”

Turner scratched at the back of his ear.

“Sure. But you didn’t come here to talk about lambs, did you?”

“Ah. Well, sir, you remember the last time I was here—”

“I see. It’s about the gentle folk, isn’t it?” Farmer Turner rolled his eyes. “It’s always them with you and that witch girl, isn’t it?” He put on a comic impression of Argana’s voice. “Oh no! It’s the lords and ladies again! Let’s go bother Farmer Turner!”

“But-”

“It’s never, let’s go to Turner’s farm and buy five kilos of ice cream, is it? Or we’ll hop on over and update him on the generator what was stole from the south field. No. Just, the little people, we’ll ask him about those.”

“I’m sorry sir, we don’t have many leads.”

“Neither do I. They were attached to the generator.”

“Ha. Ok. But you shouldn’t be too hard on the wit- on Argana. Her place burnt down, did you hear?”

“Sure. De Vries buys his Sunday lamb from one of my butchers. Nobody eats a piece of meat in this town without my knowing about it. He told them about the fire. He seems very, you know, laid back about it. That’s what you get for being a former rock star, I guess.”

“You know him?”

“Everyone does!” Farmer Turner gave him an appraising look. One of those ones that people give when they know their age is showing. “Before your time, I guess. He was bass player for Enemy Unbound. They had that massive 80s hit, what’s-it-called. Had the good sense to retire before the drugs got to him, bought up half of Trotterwell with the profits of his platinum.”

He put his mug down. “I’m sorry about the Argana girl’s flat, I really am.  But what is it you came here for?”

“That boy they found out Grindleford way.”

“The one without a face?” asked Farmer Turner, suddenly concerned. Clearly, details travelled fast in the country.

“That’s him. The, er, hill dwellers, have you noticed any activity? Anything unusual?”

“You could have done this with a phone call, you know?”

“Well, I want a look up at the circle. I’ve never been, but Ms Zeit told me about it.”

Turner chuckled.

“If you say so. Sure you didn’t just want an excuse to take that contraption for a spin? You leave that thing by my gate too long, someone’s going to think it’s a skip.”

“That might be an improvement.”

“Activity, hmm? As it happens, there’s been less.”

Less? Like how?” asked Fred, wondering what passed as a normal level of fae activity.

“We’ve put milk out for thirty generations. That’s part of the deal. We don’t see them drink it, we take care not to, but it’s always been gone by sunup.”

“Haha. That’ll be the stray cats.”

The other man fixed him with a dark look.

“You wouldn’t joke like that if you’d seen what they do to cats that cross them. The cats know it too, even the tiny ones, and they leave that offering alone. Animals have got more sense than people, sometimes.”

Fred bit the inside of his lip, feeling uncomfortable.

“But they’re not drinking it anymore?” he guessed.

“No. Not a one of these last six nights.”

“Six nights? You’re sure about that?”

Farmer Turner nodded.

“I chided Sally for it, because she was on offering duty that week and I thought she’d got lazy, put it out late. She was talking back, like kids do, you know, but I could see it in her eyes she wasn’t lying. That was six nights, for certain, because that’s when the rotas changed.”

“I see. Thank you. Anything else?”

“You mean like when there was the trouble with the boggarts? No, thankfully not. We did up every last barn with a horseshoe after that, figure it at least works as an early warning system. I’m sorry not to be more help, Fred. Not with that kid out there. They’ve not even found the family, have they?”

“No, we haven’t.”

“If I can do anything to help…”

“You can take me up to Skulker’s Rise.”

Farmer Turner flinched at the mention, a shudder running through his solid body. Capping a hill in his lands, Skulker’s Rise was the out-of-the-way place that they left their offerings.

“Unless you’re frit,” teased Fred.

“Frit? Don’t call me that, boy, you’ve got no right. I’ve just got too much to do to come up.”

“You literally just said…”

“Tell you what, I’ll send Sally up with you. She likes a man in uniform.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Fred, not quite sure if he was blushing.

Turner’s Farm stretched several miles, necessitating that they drove rather to walked to Skulker’s Rise. A fact of immeasurable amusement to Sally, who spent the trip howling with laughter every time the ice cream van sounded like it was going to come apart. Which is to say, every second of the trip. It only took five minutes to get there, but already she was struggling to breathe, wiping her wet eyes with her sleeves.

Melvyn's grotto

And, as it had to be eventually, it was time to face the music. Three days had passed since Argana Zeit’s miscreant spirit guide had burnt her flat down. She’d told the police and firefighters that it wasn’t her fault, and as far as she knew, no one was saying otherwise. There were a variety of activities that firefighters viewed with suspicion, but holding seances wasn’t usually among them. Not unless you went all out with the candles. On the day, her landlord Mr Cornelius DeVries had sent her a text, ostensibly just checking that she was ok. That day, and every day since.

So now, more to shut him up rather than because she wanted to, she was outside his office on the high street. Holding a bunch of flowers behind her back, she took a deep breath and rapped on the double doors.

DeVries’ assistant looked up from her desk at the back of the small but extremely prim salesroom. A dark-haired woman by the name of Etiquette Jones, she beckoned Argana in.

“The door’s unlocked! Turn the delightful handles and make your entrance!” The way she said it, it didn’t even seem like she thought it was odd that Argana wouldn’t come straight in like a normal shopper. No one knocked on the door of HMV before they went in, did they? Or the Post Office.

“Hi, is…?” Argana enquired nervously, having come in.

“Oh yes. I let him know the moment I laid my peepers upon you.”

She heard footsteps against stairs, descending from the room above, and then the door at the back of the salesroom opened.

DeVries made his entrance with a flamboyance that defied his small stature. Time had creased and shrunken his face. It had pushed back his shiny black hair line far up his head. But it had been unable to touch the enthusiasm that lit his eyes. He wore a crisp white shirt paired with a double-breasted waistcoat in an exuberant tartan, no doubt handmade. The black cane with which he flung open the door, drainpipe jeans, and snakeskin boots completed his look.

“Argana Zeit. Come in my girl, so glad you could make it.”

“I’m sorry about the flat!” Argana blurted. She produced the flowers from behind her back. Chrysanthemums in flame-red.

“Very kind of you.” He took the flowers and passed them to Etiquette, who left to find a vase to put them in.

Argana fidgeted, not sure what to do with her hands now they were empty. She pushed them into her jeans' pockets. But those were too shallow for that to be anything but awkward, so she pulled them out and hooked her thumbs through her belt. That felt rudely casual in front of the man who’s flat she’d been present at the burning-down-of. She gave up and folded her arms.

“And is that dog of yours, is he ok?”

“He is. Look, the fire… it wasn’t my fault.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t.” He waved her apologies away. “I have insurance for that kind of thing. It’s only a building, young lady. People make towns, not buildings. I’ve found accommodation for your neighbours while the house is refurbished. Everything’s going to be ok.”

“Are you, er, can I have somewhere else to live?” She felt a little spark of hope rise within her, but after what had happened, it was brazen to even ask.

DeVries’ expression twisted. She blushed, knowing she’d overstepped. Looking away, she studied the pictures hung on the walls. Mostly aspirational looking reproductions of famous Derbyshire painters. Joseph Wright, John Piper et al. But the former bass player hadn’t resisted the temptation to put up a few framed posters of his own exploits. Memorabilia from that time he’d played the Brixton Academy. And, closer to home, Rock City, or the Bull Ring. She tore her attention away as he finally plucked up the courage to give her the bad news.

“I— look, if it was up to me, then, yes. But I’ve got insurance to consider, and you, well, you’re a risk now…”

The outer door swung open, its little copper bell ringing. A middle-aged woman arrived, a bundle of tools and lengths of bevelled wood tucked under one arm, wrapped in brown cloth. She was wiry, with voluminous grey hair drawn into a messy bun at her crown. Paint spattered dungarees contrasted oddly with her bees-print shirt, all cinched at the waist with a utility belt.

She looked between Argana and DeVries, both frozen in a sort of confusion.

“Am I interrupting?” she asked.

It was at that moment that Etiquette returned. Without missing a beat she smiled, crossing the shop to the new arrival, hand extended.

“Not at all, my dear Miss Taylor-Ward,” she said. “You’ve come about the re-framing, naturally?”

“Um, yes. A plate?”

“It’s in my study,” said DeVries, recovering his composure. “Mrs Jones, would you be kind enough to take her up?”

“Of course. Perambulate this way, Miss Taylor-Ward, and we will ascend to the second floor.”

The artist-come-frame-maker gave DeVries a curt nod, and then followed Etiquette up the stairs that he had originally emerged from.

“What was that about?” asked Argana, momentarily forgetting her accommodation woes.

“Just a commemorative plate. It’s important to me,” he said distractedly. He spread his hands apologetically. “Look, I feel bad…”

“It’s ok, it’s ok,” said Argana, taking a step back. Unfolding her arms, she shrugged resignedly. “I understand.”

But DeVries, his face creased with concern, wouldn’t let it go.

“I know it feels like a setback. But things always work out in the end.”

When he turned to the framed poster from the Academy, she knew what was coming. Enemy Unbound, April 1984.

“It’s like when I made my music,” he said, confirming her prediction. “We tried so hard to get the band in the air. Every rejection… we just took the knock backs and rolled with them. Got up again, believed in ourselves. And a year later we were playing the Brixton Academy. A week after that we were number one in the charts.”

“I’ve heard this before. How you met a new producer, who turned it all around for you.”

“Oh, I didn’t realise I was boring you. Anyway, the point is, you don’t know what’s around the corner. You’ll find something, like we found our producer.”

She grasped the door handle, ready to leave.

“People don’t have that kind of luck anymore. It’s left this world.”

“Wait! Here’s what I’ll do for you. When you find a new place, you put me down for a reference. I’ll be nice about you. I won’t even mention the, er, incident.”

“Thanks.”

“Have you got somewhere to live right now?”

“Sure, I’m moving in with my mate Melvyn. Just for a little bit, while I look for somewhere else.”

Which wasn’t going to be as easy as it sounded. DeVries was easily the largest landlord in the town, owning a quarter of all the rental properties.

Sick of his pep-talk, she left.

A little later, and Argana was climbing the fire-escape to Melvyn’s flat. He lived above his cousin’s garage business, in what was meant to be an industrial space. He’d turned it into a vast grotto. Sure, it still had its breeze block walls and corrugated ceiling, but in every other respect it resembled an antique store. Jukeboxes stood next to varnished Welsh dressers. Shop mannequins in theatrical outfits towered over glass fibre flamingos. Ancient rocking chairs cosied up to mid-century sofas.

“Hello!” she called, pushing the door open.

“Hey, Argana!” Melvyn Drake stopped whatever he was doing - something involving a pile of tools and an inlaid wooden box - and came over. He wasn’t much taller than her, about the same age, with puffy hair and a smile that stretched his goatee out of shape. His jacket was dark velvet, pinched at the waist, the garment as customary to him as her bodywarmer was to her.

They hugged, and then he stooped to fuss Max who had clattered up the stairs behind her, his toes ringing against the galvanised metal.

“Give me a hand with the boxes?” she asked.

“Sure.”

Some things had been spared the fire at Argana’s flat. She’d been lucky with her books, which were in a box furthest from where it started. Many of her clothes too, although the majority of them were at her mum’s now, waiting to have the smoke washed out of them. Almost everything else had been destroyed. Apart from, inexplicably, the collection of dragon mugs her well-meaning uncle had gifted her over the years. She was almost disappointed. Those and her fridge magnets. Who needed fridge magnets?

Melvyn took that box, denying her the opportunity to accidentally drop it.  “I’ll give you the tour once we’re done.”

Some tour. Unless one of those old cases hid a door to another room, it was all one big space.

“There’s a bog and a sink in that corner,” said Melvyn, pointing.

“That’s just a cupboard with ideas above its station. What do you do when you need a shower, or a both?”

“The bath’s over there, behind that screen.”

A Japanese style screen stood half folded in front of a slipper-shaped bath. That had ornate bear-claw feet. It was just out in the open, as everything except the toilet was. She couldn’t imagine herself soaking in it unless she was sure Melvyn was out for the day, it was too exposed.

“I know,” he said, reading her expression. “Or, if you want a shower, there’s one in Derek’s garage downstairs. I’ll give you a key.”

They’d piled Argana’s boxes against a wall where he’d already cleared some space.

“So, um, beds?” She could only see one, a heavy four poster near the tallest wall. She didn’t fancy sharing it. Not that Melvyn was into her that way, but still, it would be kind of awkward.

“Yeah, that’s mine. It has curtains, I’ll draw them, so you don’t have catch sight of my day glo skin. I’ve got you over here…”

“That’s a tent!”

“It’s a luxury self-ventilating accommodation unit is what it is!”

“Whatever it is, thank you.”

He’d somehow cleared enough space to set down a 2m square festival tent. She’d missed it behind a substantial 1870s wardrobe but couldn’t unsee it now. Its space moose fabric was something to behold.

Crawling in for a better look she found that he’d sorted out an airbed and sleeping bag. He’d even added a sheepskin rug for Max to sleep on and trailed a cable in from somewhere to power a glass lamp in the shape of a lobster.

It took all of 5 minutes to unpack what there was of her belongings, bar the bag of books. Melvyn had found a display cabinet for the dragon mugs where they actually looked good. She resolved to accidentally leave them there when she found a new place.

Wanting a breather, they retired to the seating area. There were three mismatched sofas drawn together around a tiled coffee table, along with a leather poof for Max’s comfort. The dog circled himself three times before lying down on it.

Argana’s stomach rumbled. “You got anything to cook on around here?”

“Sort of,” responded Melvyn, indicating an impromptu kitchenette. The Grand Buxton Crescent Hotel it was not. A selection of copper sinks adorned a table, their pipework tapped into the garage’s own with trailing cables, in flagrant violation of anything that could remotely be considered building regulations. Two pairs of hobs were held up by faux roman statues in front of them, one an induction hob and the other attached to a cylinder of LPG.

“I don’t have a lot of guests,” he said, spreading his hands apologetically. “This is all very last minute.”

“I know. And we appreciate it. Don’t we, Max boy?”

Max looked over from his place on the leather poof, batted an ear nonchalantly, and went back to his pastime of dreaming lazily and twitching his paws.

Melvyn got up and went over to a free-standing cupboard.

“I haven’t got a lot in…”

“It’s ok. We’ll get takeout. My treat. You’ve got some menus somewhere…”

In response to Melvyn’s slightly despairing look, which had been accompanied by a perfunctory search of at least one drawer, she tugged her phone out of her backpack. “We’ll order online. Taste of Chandigarh?”

“Because you get fifty percent off there?”

“Well, yes.” A year or two before, Argana had done the owners a serious favour of the putting-the-nightmare-horrors-back-in-their-box variety, and they’d been grateful ever since.

They ordered, although they had to describe the location twice as ‘above Gascoigne’s Garage’ wasn’t a valid entry in the restaurant’s database.

Melvyn put the kettle on.

“While we’re waiting—”

“You’ll make me a cuppa?”

“I was going to say, we can put your books away. It’s one less box to be untidy.”

“I’m not sure you’d know what tidy was if it came up and hit you over the head with a broom.”

“No, this isn’t untidy, it’s messy. The difference is subtle.”

“Too subtle for me!”

She fetched her box of books and followed him to what he called ‘the library quarter’. There was obviously some system as to which bookshelves were purely decorative and which were for active use, but what that system was she couldn’t figure out. Which was a reasonable excuse to leave Melvyn to unpack her books. While he did that, she poked through his collection.

Best was a section stored behind a door with leaded glass panels. That was the thing about bookcases with doors, only the most significant books got to live in them. Chaos magic books from the 90s sat side by side with older, dusty-looking books from the turn of the previous century.

“Don’t you ever sort these?”

“Oh, I got those in a job lot, at an auction. There was a house clearance in Liverpool, some old medium passed away. I was really trying to get The Illuminated Book of Darkness, but someone else got that lot.”

She laughed.

“Someone should tell these people that if you illuminate darkness, it’s not dark anymore.”

“I think it’s the other kind of illuminated, as in massive swirly letters at the start of each chapter!”

“That’s daft too. I mean, you don’t read ‘The Times New Roman book of insipid quotes’, do you?”

“It sounded interesting, and I wanted it for my collection. But I got outbid by that poser Akira. How about you don’t poke fun at my hobbies, and I won’t laugh at your quaint belief in the supernatural?”

“That stuff’s real!”

“I’m a stage magician”, he said scornfully. “Take it from me, none of it is real.”

Over their curries, Argana caught him up on the fire at the flat, and her awkward meeting with DeVries. Not that he believed all the details, insisting that where she said "My idiot spirit guide set fire to the place", that she probably meant ‘the electrics were borked and the vibrations of extra people in the flat caused a short circuit.’

“Anyway,” she said, putting the remains of her rogan josh down, “that’s me. What’s new with you?”

“Oh, I’ve got a gig coming up at the Hathersage Memorial Hall. It’s for the old folks, but I’m headlining.”

“Nice. That thing you were working on when I arrived, is that part of it?”

Melvyn’s eyes lit up.

“Let me show you, you’ll love it!”

Sweeping used takeaway containers aside, he fetched the wooden box and set it before him on the table. Hinged on one side, it had filigree inlay on the outer surfaces. It was just big enough to put a skull in, although to Argana’s disappointment, he made no mention of that. In fact, there seemed to be no skull involved at all. Popping the clasp, he swung the door open, revealing the chamber to be empty.

“You’d agree, wouldn’t you, that this box is without content?” He tapped the inner walls with his pencil.

“Looks like,” she shrugged.

“Come on. You’re Trotterwell’s premier psychic investigator. Have a bit more faith in your observations!”

“It is, to my highly trained mind, unutterably empty. Like the Void”

He rolled up his sleeves, then held out his hand, palm up.

“That’s better. Now, for the next bit, I need your phone.”

“You’re not putting my phone in that contraption!”

“Ok, your earrings?”

“I don’t wear earrings, Melv. Don’t you ever even look at me?”

He gurned at her.

“To be fair, under that mop of hair, I’m not even sure that you have ears.”

“Ok then, well, how about this?” She fetched one of her mugs. It was in the shape of a fat yellow dragon, with one of its plastic gem eyes missing.

“Thanks. Right then, are you watching carefully?” Leaning over the box from behind, he placed the mug gently onto the floor of the container. The door swung closed with a satisfying click.

He twirled both hands, twisting his fingers like a cartoon wizard. “Would you believe I can make your mug vanish?”

“I’m certainly hoping you can. Otherwise, I’ll be out of a job.”

“I, Melvyn the Magnificent, by the powers invested in me by the Lord of Pandas…”

“Lord of what?” she spluttered.

“Don’t interrupt me. It’s a spiel from when I’m doing kids shows.”

“Ah, ok. Just open it already.”

“You’re a terrible audience,” he said, fumbling with the door latch. “Ah, it’s stuck.”

He thumped the top of the box with his fist and the ornate door swung open. It was empty, the mug and necklace both gone.

Instinctively, Argana leaned forward for a better look, reaching for it. Melvyn swatted her hand away. “Don’t touch!” he said.

“But how does it work?”

“I shut the door and--”

But he wasn’t fast enough, Argana pushing her hand in before he could shut the door. Her fingers snubbed hard against something that wasn’t there, halfway to the back of the box. Yanking her hand back, she left smudgy fingerprints handing in the air, an air that wobbled obligingly.

“It’s a mirror!” she exclaimed.

“Yep.” He showed her how the mirror, angled at 45 degrees, swung back into the door. What she had thought was the back of the box was actually the side, and the cup was hidden in the space behind it. “See, hidden in plain sight.”

“That’s neat.”

“I’m going to do it with this swirling jar of black smoke…”

But Argana had stopped listening. In her mind’s eye, she was seeing Elmo again, his faceless body in the hospital lights. She’d already guessed that the fae had hidden him, had wondered about how. What she hadn’t thought about, until now, was about where they had hidden him. And there had to be a way to find that out.

Skulker's Rise

Fred and Sally left the ice-cream van in the layby at the bottom of the hill. Along with a hastily scrawled ‘closed’ sign. It was, after all, a sunny day. But Skulker’s Rise wasn’t the kind of place that people came seeking a beauty spot. Sure, the surrounding landscape was stunning. Verdant hills and rugged rocks, tumbledown woods and mossy streams. But among them all, this was the path untaken. Its aura swallowed the light, making it permanently dingy.

“It’s creepy,” Sally said, looking wistfully back at the van.

“You can stay back there if you like, selling imaginary cones and flakes to imaginary kids.”

She shuddered.

“Weird woodland kids? I’ll stay close to you thanks, I’ll feel safer.”

The twisting path led them up the hill. Many of the plants they passed were dead or dying, the stagnant smell filling their nostrils.

“Is it always like this?” Fred asked, sure that Argana had never mentioned this aspect.

“No. It’s always been weird. But dead, like this? No. It wasn’t like this a week ago. I was happy enough to come up by myself then.”

She paused, turning a leaf over in her hand. It crackled dryly.

“Found something?” Botany didn’t make Fred’s top-ten list of things he knew about.

“I’m looking for blight. Some natural explanation…”

“And?”

“This isn’t either infestation or disease.”

“What about all that mould?”

“That’s what happens to dying plants, it’s not what kills them in the first place.”

At the end of the path, they reached a clearing surrounded by low, stunted trees. An earthen peninsula jutting above the woodland below, cliffs falling away to either side.

Fred cupped his hands to the sides of this mouth. “Hello!” he shouted, answered by nothing more than his own echo.

“I’ll see if it’s still here,” said Sally.

“What?”

She went to an oddly shaped hollow in the roots of a gnarly yew tree. The tree grew around a pair of carved stones leaning together in its base. Unknown runes pitted them, filled out with lichen. It took a certain amount of patience, Fred thought, to grow a Yew tree so that it had its own alcove.

“It’s here,” she said, squatting down in front of the hole in a way that blocked his view.

“What, though?”

“This!” It slopped slightly as she swung it around to show him. A tin bowl of something that had been milk and was now well on its way to being the kind of cheese that could hold conversations.

“So, the fae never—”

“Don’t say it!” Sally stood up abruptly. The bowl span away, spilling its rancid content as it went. Fred was going to have to wash his uniform.

She pulled a rag from her pocket and rubbed at his leg with it. “I’m so sorry!” Although it looked like a handkerchief, he guessed it was more likely something for cleaning tractor engines with. The fact that her efforts to wipe him clean were just smearing dark oil on his leg more than confirmed this suspicion.

“Leave it!” He shooed her away. “The, er, the Forest People…”

“Gentle Folk.”

“The Gentle Folk didn’t want their milk. That you and your clan leave out every week. Has this ever happened before?”

She shook her head.

Starting in the middle of the clearing, Fred walked a spiral outward. Apart from the dead plants, there was nothing out of the ordinary. He couldn’t even feel the sense of dread that he’d had on the path up. The hair on the back of his head remained obstinately unraised, and his geese were unbumped.

“I don’t think they’re here anymore.”

“Oh God!” Sally put her hand to her mouth. “Is that a bad omen?”

“I don’t know. Did the Gentle Folk do anything for you?”

She snorted.

“Not that I ever heard of. We don’t get anything back. We just pay them off for not bothering us.”

“Like a protection racket! Have you considered calling the police?”

He was joking, but the look she fixed him with was serious.

“I don’t think they follow our laws, Constable.”

Which is when his phone rang, surprising him that it even had a signal.

His boss Inspector Cianciolo was on the other end.

“Hey Fred, how’s it going out at Spooksville?” she asked him.

“Drawing a blank. But the country air beats sitting in the station.”

“See if you’re still saying that in winter. Listen, we’ve got a problem with Elmo.”

“Yeah?”

“I got a call from the Northern General. There’s been people trying to get up and see the boy. South Yorkshire had to post one of their uniforms there, they’re not happy about it.”

“What kind of people?” He scuffed his boot absently against the dirt, tracing the edges of a stone.

“The kind with their hoods drawn up so they can’t be recognised on CCTV.”

“They could be sightseers, if news of Elmo has leaked.”

“There’s rumours in the villages, but I don’t think any mention the location. No, these are somebody else. It’s not normal hoodies they’re wearing.”

As he talked on the phone, Fred walked to the edge of the prominence, looking out into the distance. The forested hills and edges basked in sunlight, making the cold darkness where he stood even stranger. He tried to imagine the hospital where they were keeping Elmo, over the horizon and north a little.

“How so?”

“I’ll show you the images when you’re back at the station. They’re half poncho hoodies. Like capes.”

“And you think we need to get Elmo out of there?”

“Absolutely. And not just to earn brownie points with the South Yorkshire force. Any ideas? We can probably get him in a private clinic somewhere closer to Trotterwell, but I’m not sure I can spare the officers to post a guard. We could always hire outside security, but that’s our budget for the year blown.”

As he thought about it, he let his eyes drift over the landscape below. Although he couldn’t see the Derwent, he could see the line of trees that it wound its way through. And three miles distant, the point where it met the allotments on the outskirts of Trotterwell. Glints of sunlight snagged on greenhouses. All that gardening reminded him of someone.

“Alright, here’s an idea. It’s a bit left field, so don’t shoot me down.”

“The stage is yours.,” Cianciolo said flatly.

“Do we still have the plant that he was discovered in?”

“I don’t see-”

“The stage is mine, remember? I’m thinking that thing kept him alive for we don’t know how long before we discovered him. Maybe if we put him back in, it’ll carry on. Then we don’t have to have all the rest of the medical baggage.”

“It’s an idea. Let’s hope they didn’t incinerate it. That doesn’t help with where to put it, though.”

“We need someone who knows how to look after plants. You know Judith Keppler? She’s a gardener. She can also, if those hooded wazzocks get wind of what’s going on, she can look after herself. She’s a keen martial artist.”

“The name rings a bell. Has she been in trouble?” Cianciolo asked, her voice cautious.

“The other way around. She was instrumental in bringing in that Polish hitman the other winter.”

“Ok. I’ll ring around, find out what happened to the plant. You go see this gardener when you get the chance.”

“Was that your girlfriend?” teased Sally. She’d stayed by the yew tree, pretending not to listen.

“That was my boss. I need to go and arrange something.”

“Can I come?” she fluttered her lashes in jest.

He laughed awkwardly.

“No, look, it’s police business.”

“But you’ll give me a lift back?”

“Of course I will. Never abandon a member of the public.”

“I love it when you’re all official!” she beamed.

But as they took the twisting path back down through the trees to the waiting ice cream van, her mood changed. An oppressive silence settled on them.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“I was just thinking… they’ve never just gone before. What if they’re scared of something?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I mean, what would scare the fa- the Gentle Folk?”

He regretted that question as soon as it left his lips. Because it certainly didn’t leave his brain.

Thumb cheques

Bright and early the next morning - well, the sky was bright, and the dawn had been early several hours ago - Argana arrived unannounced at Yasmin Nuri’s front door. She’d left the car in one of the new build estate’s communal parking areas. Max watched her sadly from the wound-down window. Yasmin had a cat named Ramoth who despised him, so he had to stay where he was. Ramoth’s loss, figured Argana.

Opening the door to her friend, Yasmin showed no hint of surprise at Argana’s arrival. Shorter than Argana, Yasmin was about the same age, moving with a hesitant balance-correcting gait born of a reluctance to leave the comforts of cyberspace for the harsh realities - and gravity - of meatspace.

“Come on in, Argie,” she said, flattening herself against the wall so that Argana could get past.

“Hey, thanks.” Argana skipped past her.

As always, Yasmin’s tastefully neutral house was upstaged by the clutter within it. Multiple computer monitors on metallic grids, cascades of cables, endless blinking boxes in black-and-neon. There were, in theory, chairs and sofa under there somewhere, but anywhere that could be considered comfortable seating was already snowed under in discarded boxes or half eaten take-outs. A white cat glared at her from under a misused coffee table.

“Hey, Ramoth, who’s a pretty kitty?” she called out to the animal. He gave her a look of disdain that said she wasn’t worth the effort of hissing at, stretching his paws out to demonstrate his murder mittens before resuming loaf form.

“Don’t mind him. Head on through to the kitchen,” called out Yasmin, bolting the front door.

Argana did. She’d been there before and - so long as she ignored the curious by-products of Yasmin’s cooking - it was the most adjournable part of the house. It at least had bar stools that weren’t covered in detritus, so she pulled one up. Yasmin did likewise.

“What do you want?” Yasmin asked, “I’m missing Celebrity Destined Hearts!”

“I had you more as an Attack of the Titans girl.”

“But what do you…”

“I came here to ask you… but now I’m here, I want to ask you what that is.” Argana pointed at the jar at the far end of the table.

“It’s a universal translator. People always talk about how sourdough is alive, well, that’s a starter that’s been around for generations. I picked it up at a house clearance. Can you imagine the stories it could tell, if it could talk?”

“Are you, er, serious?”

“Of course not. I’m not talking to it. Sourdough has no nervous system. But it does, like potato, have an electrical potential. I use fluctuations in that to drive a mathematical seed generator…”

“Actually, I wanted to talk about hidden things.”

Yasmin looked wryly around her flat.

“I haven’t seen the remote for the second telly in a week. Or the can opener, I had to 3D print one that took a carbon cutting disk as a standard fitting.”

“I’m not talking about the apartment. I’m talking about the fae.”

“Oh,” scoffed Yasmin with a dismissive laugh that shook her entire body. “Here it comes. You can’t ever just be here with a normal project, can you? It’s always got to be paranormal.”

“What do you know about normal? You custom print your bog roll with the faces of your enemies!”

“Everyone wants to do that.”

“Really - no, it’s weird. And, just FYI, frankly a bit awkward for your guests.”

“I don’t have guests. I have inconveniences who drop by unexpectedly.”

“Touché. Still and all, the fae, right, have been hiding faceless people in the hills. And I want to know why more of them haven’t been found.”

Yasmin picked up the jar of sourdough, still trailing its wires, cooing to it in the voice she normally reserved for Ramoth.

“That sounds like a task for a paranormal investigator. I wonder where you could find one of those? Why don’t you ask that Doctor Egbe? The one Melvyn was dating. He’s a watchamacallit, isn’t he?”

“Parapsychologist.”

“Bingo. Advanced studies of all things implausible. He’ll believe you.”

“Seriously though, how would you go about finding a hidden thing in the Peaks?”

Yasmin put the sourdough down again.

“It depends a lot on how it had been hidden. Can’t you, y’know, narrow it…”

Hidden from sight. Argana thought back to Melvyn’s box-of-banishment, remembering the moment that her fingers had touched the glass and broken the illusion.

“You wouldn’t be able to get too close. They’d need a way of stopping that. So, perhaps, can you look for a place that nobody goes?”

“In 1,437 square kilometres of the Peak District?” Yasmin threw her hands up in exasperation. “Sure, Argie, whatever you say, but you’ll be paying for my Azure credits.”

“Your what? - No, don’t’ answer that. We can narrow it down. Try Grindleford first. Run an algorithm or something.”

“It’s really not as easy as…”

“You know what is easy? Beating your sorry behind at Dino Rampage 3, Pimp my Cart mode!”

“Oh, is that right?” Yasmin cracked her knuckles, the joints popping one at a time in elaborate sequence. “I’ll have you know I’m number twenty-three in the European nightshift second league!”

Argana followed her friend back to the front room, where it was the work of a few huffing seconds to push pretty much everything that had been on the sofa off it.

Yasmin handed her a controller. “Prepare for an almighty drubbing.”

Argana narrowed her eyes theatrically.

“Your mouth is writing cheques your thumbs can’t cash.”

“What on earth is a cheque? Darwin’s beard, you’re antiquated sometimes, Argie.”

On the screen, two dinosaurs appeared, each seated in a go-cart the size of battleship.

A lotta allotment

Joseph Wright’s was a park in the centre of town. A triangle of land that had miraculously never been built on, featuring a meandering brook that fed a duck pond that was mostly an excuse for an ornamental bridge. It wasn’t necessary; the tributary was at places narrow enough that adventurous children could, and did, jump it often, getting no more than the cuffs of their socks muddy. Like everywhere else in Trotterwell, it resided on a hill, sloping down and away from the market square. It was too early for picnickers, but the day was bright and the place was already beginning to fill up with day trippers.

Finding her favourite thinking bench unoccupied, Argana settled down onto it. Persuading Max to stay close by was harder than she liked. he was mostly a well-behaved dog, but the frolicking flocks of ducks called to his herder’s instincts.  A butterfly, apparently mocking his decision to obey her, alighted on his nose. It folded its wings twice, twitched, then launched and drifted away on the breeze.

“At least we’re out from under Melvyn’s feet,” she said, sighing. A wave of sadness overtook her at the thought of her lost flat, which she had called home ever since she moved out of her parents'. It had better views than Melvyn’s pied-a-garage, and, like a cat, she felt safer the higher she was.

“That lady’s talking to herself.”

She caught the voice on the edge of her hearing and, without looking around, spotted the perpetrator. A small boy in a ladybird costume, walking hand in hand with a tall, angular-faced woman. Because Argana had been ignoring them with maximum nonchalance, she hadn’t even noticed they were Melvyn’s sister and her son.

“That’s your Auntie Argana, don’t be rude about her!”

“Gretel!” Argana blurted. “And hello, Oscar. You’ve, um, grown.”

“It’s the costume,” said Oscar, very seriously. “Ladybirds grow to full size in three weeks. Did you know that?”

Max bounded up to the child, nudging him with his nose, tail wagging. Oscar stroked him vigorously the wrong way.

Gretel sat down on the bench next to Argana. “So, you moved in with my brother. How are you finding it?”

“So far, so quirky. It was kind of him to put me up.”

Oscar stopped petting the dog and looked up.

“Do you want to see what I’ve got?” he asked keenly.

Argana shifted her weight. She wasn’t a big fan of children but had found that interacting with named ones made her life smoother in the long run. She leaned forward, dredging up a smile from the depths of her soul.

“Go on then.”

“I’m collecting,” said Oscar. He unslung his small backpack, an action that required considerable effort on account of his ladybird costume. His deely boppers were knocked off in the process. Gretel, huffing good-naturedly, scooped them up again.

“What’s in there?” asked Argana as sweetly as she could manage. She’d come here to think, not entertain the future bloodline of the Drake clan.

“See? This car. And it’s red. Look, a red car.”

The bag did indeed contain the aforementioned red car, a die cast metal toy of the old school variety. Also, two further plastic cars that might once have transformed into robots before their limbs had been chewed off. Last year’s pinecone, three marbles, a glow in the dark yo-yo, and a box of matches.

Argana glanced up at Gretel when she saw the matches, but the mother shrugged.

“He keeps beetles in it.”

“Do you want to see?” Oscar thrust the box under Argana’s nose, popping it open with his thumb. Three bumblebees lay in it, dry and weightless in death.

“He found them that way,” said Gretel.

“It’s good he’s not a mass murderer.”

“Do you want to trade one?” asked Oscar.

“No, thanks. I’ve got all the dead insects I need.”

He stuck his lip out for show, dropping the insect box back in his back. Scooping his favourite toy out two-handed, he clutched it to his shoulder.

“I’m not trading the car.”

Argana dug in her pockets, finding the Demoncoyn bottle opener the Arbuthnots had left behind.

“How about I trade you this bottle opener?”

“I don’t want that,” he said, indignantly. “I’m not four.”

“Ok, I’ll come and find you when I’ve got something proper to trade, ok?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Haunted mushrooms? An animated skeleton?”

Oscar looked to his mother for reassurance.

“She’s joking.”

“Well, she was talking to herself,” Oscar said obstinately.

Argana’s phone rang, Berkshire’s number appearing on the screen, along with a photo of him in a party hat. She couldn’t remember when that was taken. She’d barely ever seen him out of uniform, not since he’d joined the force at eighteen.

“Hey, I’ve got to take this,” she said apologetically, although secretly relieved.

“Is it your mum?” asked Oscar.

“It’s the police.”

His eyes widened.

“Have you been naughty?”

“Yes,” she said. And then to the phone, “…that’s right sir, I’d like to report a giant ladybird. Yes, it’s in the park. It’s going to eat everyone!”

“I only eat aphids,” the child objected, scowling.

Gretel took him by the hand, leading him gently away.

“Come along Coleoptera, we’ve got a party to go to. Bye, Argana.”

“Bye. So, Berk, what can I do for you?”

On the little screen Berkshire snorted wryly.

“You can stop wasting police time with your manga fantasies of giant insects, for starters.”

“Hey! That giant bug was wasting my time, I’ll have you know.”

“It’s about Elmo. They think he’s in danger. Some hooded typed trying to get into the hospital.”

“Hooded types?” She laughed dismissively. “Classic eeeeeeeevil.”

“I’d like you to take this a bit more seriously. A boy’s life is in danger!”

“I’m literally working to get his face back! A girl can have a little fun along the way.”

Berkshire sighed impatiently. “Regardless, we need to move him. Dr Mazruk has put him back in his plant-pod, and apparently he’s doing well. We need to move him somewhere safe, somewhere where both he and his plant support system can be looked after.”

“If you’re thinking of me, I don’t even have a house. I’m sleeping in a tent on Melvyn’s floor!”

“I wasn’t! I’ve seen your flat - your old flat - you couldn’t even keep a spider-plant alive. And those things are certified for the apocalypse. No. Judith Keppler, you remember her?”

“The kung-fu gardener?”

“Judo, I think, but yes. I’m going to get transport arranged. While I’m doing that, can you go over to her place and see if she’s up for it? I’ll have the office send you her address.”

“No problem.” She hung up. “Max! Those thirteen ducks are not sheep. Haul your furry butt over here, we’re rolling out!”

Max gave the fowl one last suspicious look, warning them not to break out of the flock he’d herded them into, and then came racing over.

Argana stopped the car on Hawthorn Lane, where low, pre-industrial cottages backed onto the allotments. It was where Trotterwell met the wooded hills outside the town, which wasn’t difficult as, apart from where it bordered the river, Trotterwell was surrounded by rolling lumps of clod like baby mountains. This was where Judith, a somewhat ferocious gardener of her acquaintance, lived.

Slightly regretting not ringing ahead, Argana got out of the car, Max loping alongside her. Promisingly, Judith’s battered-but-dependable work van was in the drive. The cottage itself seemed unloved, but there were new looking sheds in the side garden and Argana predicted many more behind the house, where they would be hidden by the slope. She banged on the wonky door and waited.

Judith appeared, clad in dusty overalls, her hair scraped back in a way that made her weatherbeaten face look distinctly sturdy. She was bigger than Argana, about five years older, with thick arms and hands prematurely gnarled by outdoor work. There was no warmth in her spinach-green eyes, not until she saw the dog.

“Hello again, Max,” she said, stooping to ruffle his ears. “And you’ve brought Argana with you.”

She stood up again and addressed Argana directly. “Hello, what are you doing here? You don’t, as far as I know, have a garden, so you can’t be about to employ me.”

“You’ve got extensive allotments though, right? And you’re, like, good with plants?”

Judith raised an eyebrow, indicating that both these things were true. She loomed in the doorframe in a way that largely blocked Argana’s view of the interior.

“So, I want you to help me with something. We’ve got a very, very unusual plant that needs looking after. Somewhere safe.”

“What kind of plant?” asked Judith.

“A big one.” Argana spread her arms as wide as they’d go. “Hippo sized.”

Judith studied her face for a moment. Argana did her best to look agreeable and innocent, but it felt like the other woman’s gaze was an X-ray, sweeping through the surface into the thoughts below. She shivered involuntarily.

“It’s important, then. I’ll show you the sheds. This way.”

Shutting the door, Judith led her down a path beside the house, laid with flat stones. The vista that opened up beyond was impressive, the landing dipping down and then rising into the skyline of rooftops. And in the midground, first Judith’s long garden full of sheds, then the maze of allotments that served the north side of town.

“Deciduous. Fruit plants. Shrubs. Root vegetables.”

She named each shed as they passed them, not really looking. Beyond those they reached a high leylandii hedge at the marshier end of the grass. A makeshift door hung in the middle, scavenged from a skip, still bearing the number nine on its blistered surface. When it opened though it was well oiled, and a pulley system using a cast iron gnome as a weight shut it again.

“You’ve got your own door to the allotments!” Argana exclaimed.

“Yes.”

“That’s super handy. What do the allotment committee think of it?”

“Whatever I tell them to. I’ve been on it since I was eighteen.”

And no doubt running it for most of that time, Argana thought.

Judith showed her around. She proved to have three adjacent allotments, with tool and potting sheds, and rows upon rows of raised beds, some covered, some left for the vegetables to wave their leafy fronds at the sky. Argana didn’t have any idea what any of it was. As a general rule the only trees she could accurately identify were namechecked in The Golden Bough or The White Goddess.

“This mystery plant of yours, is it a tree? A shrub?”

“Kinda bulbous bodied. No flowers” Argana hadn’t herself seen the plant that Elmo had been entombed in, but the hospital had sent her photographs.

“Baobab?” Asked Judith.

“I don’t know. It’s green, with big, prickly leaves.”

“Gunnera,” said Judith.

“I’m pretty sure you’ve never seen anything like these.”

The other woman nodded, humouring Argana.

“Ok then. What climate is it from? What soil does it like? Sunlight, shade? Is it perennial? Do they-”

“Perreny-what? It’s from the moorland above Grindleford, so I guess it likes whatever bracken, tall grass, and twisted witchy trees like.”

“Ah, poorly drained, acidic soils. Something heather would enjoy. I can get my hands on some suitable soil.”

She reached the doors of a larger barn, constructed of heavy wood and tarred black. Two large doors could be opened to admit farm machinery, but she opened the smaller door set within those, stepping inside. Argana followed her. It was mostly empty, save for a long trestle table down the middle and some stack of potting implements. The breeze block walls were topped with curved corrugated steel embossed with pipework pipework. Naked bulbs hung from the ceiling. It smelt of earth and rust, and a ventilation fan whirred in one corner.

“I’ve been using it as a storage area, mostly,” explained Judith.  “But you’re in luck. I tidied it up recently. I’m expecting a delivery of goats, you see, but not until the autumn. How long do you need me to look after this plant for?”

“A couple of weeks maybe. And, er, you should know. There’s someone else looking for him.”

“Him? It’s rare to meet a plant with a pronoun, “observed Judith, her brow tightening with suspicion. “What kind of someone is looking?”

“Hooded people? The hospital security didn’t explain much.”

“Hospital?”

“I don’t think they’re that dangerous,” Argana said hastily, not wanting to put Judith off.

But she’d misread the situation. The gardener mimed putting someone in a headlock.

“I can take care of myself.”

She ushered Argana back out of the barn, pushing a heavy bolt into place behind them.

The thick metal squealed against its bracket.

“A plant that came from a hospital? I’ll help you out, girl, but you’re not going anywhere until you’ve explained what’s going on.”

“You’ll never believe me.”

Judith gave her an inviting smile. “Try me.”

Tea and pitchforks

“Constable Berkshire, you took the call on that trouble out at Brink Hall, didn’t you?”

That was Inspector Luciana Cianciolo, not taking the trouble to leave her office, yelling through to Fred. He was in the back room of the East Street Station, finishing off a grilled vegetable sandwich. They’d had to stash the toastie-maker in one of the filing cabinets, there was nowhere else for it to go. Oddly, this wasn’t in contravention of any of health and safety training videos he had to watch biennially.

Dusting the crumbs off his uniform, he went to see her.

“Yes, that’s right.”

Cianciolo’s office, like the rest of the station, was small. Unlike the rest of the station, it was well presented. Both of these attributes could be ascribed to Cianciolo herself. In her late thirties, her straight dark hair was neatly parted to either side of her sleek face. It was lucky for her that the height requirements for an officer had been waived a generation ago. At a distance, if she was neither moving nor talking, she could be easily underestimated. But Fred wasn’t far away, he was close enough to see her orange-brown eyes, and the restless intelligence behind them.

As she looked up at him, she wore an expression of wry sympathy. He knew that look. It meant something he wouldn’t enjoy was coming.

“It’s your lucky day,” she said. “Councillor Pauline Hardcastle is on the warpath.”

“Is she?” Fred’s heart sank. For the most part, he enjoyed the community relations element of policework. Chases were better, but public interaction still beat paperwork by a long margin. But Hardcastle, already selected to run as a candidate for MP in the next election, had a level of pretentiousness that would shame a gilded bog brush.

He glanced back at the room he’d just come from, the catch-all that they used as a break area, storage zone and interview room. Clutter climbed the wall like paper vines, their lower edges lost behind piles of boxes. “Should I, um, tidy up?”

“No. Go and meet her at a coffee shop. One of the nicer ones, not that greasy place under the arches.”

Half an hour later Fred was in The Olive Garden, sat opposite Councillor Hardcastle,  nursing an americano while she drank a milkless chai. She had declared it was good for her figure, and chased it down with a cream infused praline eclair. She was a stern looking woman in her fifties, dressed in that kind of country couture that doubled as frumpy chic. A pin badge adorned the corner of her pink cardigan, a sterling silver tractor flying the St George cross.

“This is lovely, don’t you think, Constable?” She gave him a well-practiced smile, as shallow as it was equine.

“It is.  So, what seems to be the trouble?”

She put her hands together, interweaving her fingers, her expression changing to enlightened concern with such speed it was as if the smile had never been there.

“England is still a Christian nation. Trotterwell is a God-fearing town. And this Akira Pixels, coming in from outside, buying up the mansion, well…” she spread her palms, inviting him to join the dots. He didn’t; he couldn’t find them, and he didn’t want to.

“Go on,” he said in a professionally neutral tone.

“And now he’s got this,” her mouth twisted in distaste, “demon’s coin thing. It’s all over the internet. You must have seen it.”

“It’s a cryptocurrency. Those things are legal, for now.”

“But it summons demons!” she hissed.

“That’s not illegal either. Not since at least the 1700s.” Fred scratched as his ear. He didn’t like cryptocurrencies, but disliking something wasn’t enough for them to be illegal. But he’d met enough otherworldly beings in time to know that they could be physically dangerous. He wasn’t without sympathy for Councillor Hardcastle’s viewpoint. It was her approach that he couldn’t stomach.

“So, you haven’t seen it? Members of my church reported his ad fifty-two times!”

“You’ll have to take that up with the ad company. Even if the police were involved, I’m telling you, East Street Station has as much to do with cyber as Belper has to do with Bletchley Park!”

Hardcastle snorted a brief laugh before looking serious again. Glancing to either side to check no one was watching, she surreptitiously slid her phone onto the table.

“Have a look,” she whispered. “Then tell me it isn’t a crime.”

She’d turned the sound off to avoid the scrutiny of the other diners, so it was fortunate that the advert came with captions.

Akira Pixels, almost unrecognisable under a thick layer of filters, standing in front of Brink Hall. Cut to close up.

“Have you ever dreamed of summoning your own demon?” he asked, subtitled. “Now you can!”

He was replaced by an image of parchment, computer generated. Lines of ink grew and spun, forming a binding circle, all intersecting lines and unknown runes.

“Chanting:” read the subtitles, “astho k’cha, k’cah ia ia ftagn”.

Cut back to Akira, this time standing in front of a bank of computers, his arms spread wide.

“Your computer will go through millions of combinations of random summoning circles. And the best bit is, you’ll be earning Demoncoyn at the same time!”

The ad ended with a final image. Digital flames pouring skyward behind the Demoncoyn symbol, a capital D with two lines through it, one of them a forked tail and the other a trident.

Hardcastle hastily pocketed the device before anyone would spot it.

“You see what we’re dealing with here?”

“This has really irked you, hasn’t it?”

“My email box is crammed with constituents complaining about it!”

“So, let me ask you a question. Your family is close with the Jeffersons, aren’t you?”

“They’re good people. Salt of the earth.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about them harassing Mr Pixels, would you?”

“They’ve got a right to do controlled burns on their own land,” she said.

He hadn’t mentioned the fire. She was too clever for that to be an accidental slip. No, she was daring him to make something of it. But he wasn’t going to take the bait.

“Of course, Councillor. And then there’s the matter of someone scrawling the word 'Satanist' on Brink Hall.”

“I hope you’re not suggesting that we had anything to do with that. Brink Hall’s a listed building, for the love of God!”

“Yes, it is. The front facade is very much listed. So, it’s interesting that the vandals attacked the redbrick extension, which is of lesser architectural value.”

She glared at him.

“Oh, that is interesting, isn’t it? I’ll tell you what’s interesting to me, Mr, and that’s that a constable of the law has more interest in protecting the rights of a necromancer than the well-being of honest working folk!”

Berkshire spread his hands, palm up.

“I’m really sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. If you want to make consorting with demons illegal, you talk to your friends in parliament. And even if it was, I wouldn’t describe what Mr Pixels is doing as anything more than a publicity stunt.”

“Oh, I’ll do more than that. I may be just a councillor now, but I’ll been an MP soon. And when I am, Constable, I’ll see to it that demons are outlawed. Them, and every kind of occult quackery out there!”

“Best of luck with that.”

“Don’t mock me. I came to you for help, and you wouldn’t give it. What happens next is on your hands, not mine!”

Anger flashed across her face. But as quickly as he’d seen it, the expression passed. She looked welcoming and concerned again.

“More tea, Constable?”

He blinked.

Number of the beast

It was dark, the streetlights outside Melvyn’s studio casting strange patterns on her tent, when Argana's phone woke her. Which was impressive in itself, because the summer sun came up at four AM. It jarred her from a pleasant but nonsensical dream about chasing a hot biker through a meadow with a combine harvester. Her ringtone God save the Queen was too raucous a choice for the time of night, and she had regrets.

She sat up blearily on her wobbling airbed, pulled the duvet up to her chin, and stared at the tiny screen. It was still ringing. Max, on his dog bed just outside the entrance, lifted his chin for moment before shifting and tucking a resigned paw over his pointy ears.

“Akira Pixels,” she grumbled, finally answering it. “What do you want?”

“It’s gone to six dollars sixty-six,” said the breathless voice at the other end of the phone, “It’s been doing it every six point six seconds since midnight. So we checked back, and it’d previously been hitting that price every Seven hours and Six minutes for the last few days. That’s Six hours and Sixty Six minutes, if you haven’t had your coffee yet.”

She’d left her own camera off, but the video call showed Akira’s excited face looming close under uneven artificial light. Broad cheekbones, artfully tufted blue hair.  But it was the expression on his face that was electric. Like a man who’s giving a live report watching angels, not knowing whether to run or fall on his knees and worship. It was tempting to record him, just to make gifs of this expression and send them to Yasmin. Argana resisted, not out of any moral decency but because she was too sleepy to figure out the controls.

“What?” she asked. “You’re not making any sense.”

Akira rolled his eyes and laughed,

“Six sixty-six, Argana, come on, like the sign, eh?” He made devil’s horns with his fingers.

“You’ve rung me up in the middle of the night to yell numbers at me? Is this like when you took shrooms and you and Toaster spend three hours hiding from Nazgul in the park?”

“No, no, no. This is way better. It’s - you know, it’s easier if I just show you. I wanna watch your face when you see this, put your video on.”

Although she had left the camera off, she still self-consciously jabbed at her hair with her free hand, convinced that it must be sticking out at awkward angles. It was.

Akira tilted his phone to show her one of his computer screens. Jagged lines raced each other across it, streams of numbers fighting for space above them. Some of kind of crypto exchange.

“You’re talking about the price of your Demoncoyns?”

“Bingo. I told you, this girl’s good.”

Argana yawned, dropping her phone in her effort to scrub at her eyes.

“So?” prompted Akira when she said nothing.

“So? So, it’s,” she checked the clock, “quarter past stupidly early in the morning. So, you’re disturbing me. So, I’m going to hang up, put the phone on silent, and slumber peacefully for the rest of the night.”

“If you were going to hang up, you’d have done it already. You usually do.”

Argana sighed. If her curiosity was a petard, she was hoisted upon it. Clearly, Akira was excited by the appearance of the number of the beast in his charts.

“Yasmin told me you were dabbling in something," she said, "that you and your cryptobros…”

“Cryptopeeps,” corrected Akira. “Cryptobros is gendered. Maaaan, it’s so 2001.”

“They didn’t have crypto in 2001.”

“They had scriptkidz.”

“That’s ageist.”

There was an irritable voice from outside her tent. Melvyn, slightly slurring.

“What are you doing, Argana? Are you talking in your sleep?”

“Sorry!”

She put her head under the covers to better muffle her conversation and carried on in a whisper.

“You and your Cyrptopeeps, when you first moved in you had that big barn full of bitcoin farmers, right? I thought you just resurrected that. And then there’s this demon summoner website of yours, the one that got the old farts riled…”

“It’s brilliant, right? But, um, we’re gonna need your help. To detect when we actually get a demon. We can pay you?”

“In Demoncoyns?”

“For sure. Listen though, the plural of Demoncoyn is Demoncoyn. As in, gonna make me some Demoncoyn. Right?”

“No, you pay me in cash. Something with the Queen’s head on. Or King Chuck’s. What’s the problem, anyway?”

“Um, so, it looks like the website worked. We’ve, like, summoned a Demon.”

Cool, she had thought. Argana had even said she’d be right over. But that was before she’d decided she needed five more minutes’ kip to function, which had lasted until daybreak. Now the sun was up, she was fed and caffeinated, Max had dined on kibble. She’d scooped up her emergency ‘occult go’ bag and they’d bundled into the car, heading out to Brink Hall. It had its own tree-lined path and, although the Hall itself was still the kind of run down that only the most optimistic observer could describe as ‘shabby chic’, the garden was looking better than it had the last time she’d seen it. But then, that had involved a thousand possessed moles, so fair dos.

Distracted by the Victorian grandeur, she almost forgot to brake, bringing the Micra to a gravel-scattering halt behind a camper van decked out to look like a gypsy wagon. There were half a dozen vehicles; those belonging to Akira and his disciples she was expecting. But the presence of the faux-gypsy wagon, along with a hearse decked out with ankhs and sugar skulls, perturbed her.

“Come on Max,” she said, getting out. Max immediately did rapid circuits of the car park, reminding her that he hadn’t had his walk yet. He’d be insufferable by lunchtime if she didn’t take him out for a jaunt.

“Get it together, hound,” she chided.

He scampered over to her as she came up to the front door, which had its own church-style stone porch. The door was ajar, so she pushed her way in. Max barked to announce their presence, but there was no one in the entrance hall, leaving them alone to enjoy the uneasy contrast of wood panelling and orange-on-powder-blue decor.

“We’re down here!” The voice came from an oil painting. Moving the painting aside, she found a concealed entrance to, from the smell of it, a cellar. She followed the stairs down.

“Oh, you got here at last!” called Akira Pixels. He was stood between two rows of computers, the desks attended by his assorted lackeys. A mixture of suited try-hards and his usual quirky hangers-on. Pulsing orange lights lit the ceiling, a whitewashed arch. If the vast room had once been a wine cellar, its content would have been enough to have the whole of Trotterwell calling a sickie with a hangover.

Akira called her attention back down to Earth. “You know Psychic Sybil?”

Argana immediately locked eyes with the woman. The ersatz gypsy wagon suddenly made sense. Psychic Sybil, with her elongated nails, winged eyeliner, and resting aloof face. She’d made it a rung or two up the celebrity ladder, far enough to pay for her jewellery in any case. The collection weighed her down like ballast, as if she’d fly away without it. Maybe she would. In her silk billows, she did look like a hot air balloon.

“Fraud,” spat Argana.

Psychic Sybil narrowed her eyes in response.

“Charlatan.”

“Marvellous!” Akira clapped his hands together. “I knew you’d get on!”

“Like a house on fire,” purred Sybil. “Or a flat.”

Argana glared daggers, but Sybil tossed her hair and walked away.

She looked around the room. Excited faces, worried faces. Techies, influencer wannabes, faux psychic assistants, yes. But nothing conspicuously demonic. Which was fair because, in her experience, demons mostly weren’t real. But horrifying otherverse entities that wanted to masquerade as them certainly were, and there was no point pretending to be a demon if they couldn’t turn up and impress the geek brigade.

“Well, your demon’s not here, is it?” she observed. “So where is it?”

“That’s the thing. We don’t know. Which is what Psychic Sally over there-”

“Sybil.” corrected the psychic without turning around.

“… is doing with her Tarot cards. They’re like the radar of the occult world. I made that up myself.”

“Let’s go back to the beginning, shall we? You released a crypto currency called Demoncoyn, which… what?”

“We tethered it to the number of black candles in the Vatican. If the value changes, so does the value of the candles. You can always exchange a Demoncoyn for a black candle.”

“Ok, but you’re… not making candles?”

“So, you know that you can embed scripts in a cryptocoin, right, and that mining the coin runs the script, right?”

“Um, kind of,” said Argana, making a mental note to get the Janet-and-John version of it from Yasmin later.

“Ok, we’ve got this website right, and we got it to go viral. People log on, and it shows summoning circles and chants. They look random, but really the website is running a miner on the client's machine.”

“Would you please,” said Sybil, scowling, “get this wannabe witch out of here? She’s blocking my chakra.”

In two quick strides, Argana was up in her face.

“Akira here woke me at two in the morning so I could be here! Because he knows I get results! You want a blocked chakra? I’ll block your chakra!”

She balled her fists to underline her point.

Akira was there at once, although he thought better of stepping between them.

“Ladies, ladies!” he said, making parting-the-sea motions with his arms.

“Don’t you ladies me!” Argana and Sybil said at once.

Their altercation had silenced the room, everyone turning away from their monitors to stare at them. Toaster drifted over, ever present camera on his shoulder, its red light blinking. Argana gave the thin man a glare vengeful enough to make him shut the thing down.

Akira’s face squirmed, but his voice was determined.

“I’ll have to keep you two apart. I can’t have you squabbling, I’ll throw a bucket of water over you both.”

“I’ll get that on camera!”

“Down, boy,” he snapped at his cameraperson. And then, once he’d got his emotions under control, he said, “Psychic Sybil, you go sit over there, by the mainframe. Your cards will get a better read close to the source, I’d have thought.”

“What about her?”

Argana put her hands on her hips, planting her feet wide.

“I’m not going anywhere!”

“Yes, you are,” Akira said quietly. “Go and wait by the well. I’ll bring a laptop over.”

Argana scowled, muttering an ill-natured agreement, but she went anyway.

The well was in the darkest, and oldest, corner of the room. The stonework was different, looking less like foundations and more like someone had mortared up an old drystone wall. Underfoot, the floor was cobbled. The well surround itself was newer, though still very old. Slabs of carved black marble, probably brought from nearby Ashford. And behind those was a modern display cabinet containing a sandstone sculpture, badly weathered. About fifty centimetres high, it had truncated arms, a mass that might be hair, and a fish tail. Argana spent a minute soaking up the history just to calm herself.

“Is that a mermaid?” she asked Akira, as he came over with his laptop.

“Yeah. Cool, huh?”

“I’ve never seen it before.”

“I’ve never made you sit in the naughty corner of the cellar before. Now, can I show you this?”

“Not yet,” she said, still staring at the sculpture. “Where’s it from?”

“It was dug up near the well, during the repairs. It’s Roman. I’ll take it to Sotheby’s when I can be bothered.”

Argana tilted her head on one side. In a way that she couldn’t describe, it seemed like the statue wanted to stay where it was.

“Roman? How old’s the well?”

He shrugged.

“At least as old as the Romans. There was maybe a fort here, Verricester. Maybe not. Look, I called you over here for serious business, not to poke about my statue collection.”

Argana sat demurely on her hands, pretending to look prim, though she wanted to point out that a single statue did not a collection make.

“That’s better.” He opened his laptop.

Argana leaned in for a better look. The screen looked like parchment, a mucky beige mess watermarked with occult symbols. Not real ones. They appeared to be copied from some game, possibly Dino Rampage 2: The revenge of Akhenhatenosaur. But what really caught her attention was the concentric circles drawn even as she watched, in digitised inky strokes. The circle was then partitioned into seven portions and more sigils - real ones this time - tracked over the top. All the time the machine chanted in a strange, guttural tongue. It took about a minute, before the computer scrubbed the on-screen parchment clean and the whole process started again with a new circle and a new chant.

“What am I watching?” asked Argana, unable to keep the astonishment from her voice. The hairs were standing on end at the nape of her neck. “This could actually work. But you’ll just a summon a pan dimensional horror into some random spod’s house. How in hell do you go on to control it?

“Now that’s the clever bit,” Akira said, puffing out his chest and looking suave. “It’s mining the coin at the same time, right? The coin records the sigils, and the script running on the coin automatically claims ownership of the demon on our behalf. Everything’s recorded on the blockchain, so it’s indisputable.”

“Demons are known for respecting blockchains, are they?” It sounded a bit ordered to Argana.

“Think about it. It’s gotta be right up their street! Bitcoin alone burns, like, a bazillion tons of carbon in a year, and if demons like anything, I’ve heard, it’s run away climate inferno. Hell on Earth, dude, Hell on Earth!”

Argana raised an eyebrow at him. Akira shrugged.

“Anyway, that’s beside the point. It’s not, er, it’s not the blockchain that-”

She’d known him long enough to read him. Akira was bluff and bluster, all of the time, whether things were going wrong or not. But when he was happy, he tended his spiky hair by pushing his fingers upward through it. When he wasn’t, he tugged it forward, instead. And right now, he was sporting a quiff to rival the one she’d seen on DeVries’ 80s poster.

“Something’s gone wrong, hasn’t it? Tell me what it is.”

He tangled his fingers together, swinging his feet and staring the floor between them.

“There is, like, a bug in the script.”

“The script that claims the demon?”

“Yes, owing to… it was just a syntax error. Just one misplaced comma, would you believe? That and a square bracket that should have been… A typo, basically. Thanks to this typo, the demon won’t belong to us, when one arrives. it’ll belongs to whoever owns that particular Demoncoyn.”

“Dude, you got hacked.”

“Yes,” he said. “Well, no. Ozymandius86 fluffed it. The code’s dreadful.”

“Ozy… you hired a coder, and you don’t even know their real name?”

“That is his real name! He changed it.”

“Well, he sounds stable.”

“The fix should propagate through the network within a week,” said Akira, ignoring her sarcasm. “It’s only if we get a demon before then that we’re in trouble.”

“I see. And you’d like me to set something up so that if it does arrive early, you get some kind of warning?”

“Bingo.” Akira smiled broadly.

She looked pointedly at Psychic Sybil, still turning over tarot cards at a desk next to the server bank.

“What about her?”

“Call her an insurance policy.”

“You rang her first!”

“I didn’t! She just gets up quicker than you did. Well, can you do it?”

Argana made a mental inventory of her occult bag. The only thing she didn’t have was a physical object with a sympathetic link to any potential demon.

“I need something with a connection to the summoning process. What have you got?”

“We use old books as seed values?”

“What does that even mean? No. You mentioned black candles… oh! Books?” She thought of Melvyn’s book collection, and how he’d lost out on one of his purchases. “One of those wouldn’t be The Illuminated Book of Darkness, would it?”

Akira looked at her with admiration. “How’d you guess that? Would the book be the connection you need? I don’t think I can detach it. I’ve left it open on one of the rune pages, using a light sensor to generate random values.”

She waved the idea away, not wanting to dig into the technicalities of his process.

“No, it’s just Melvyn was talking about it. Is it any good?”

“It made my eyes itch when I tried to read it, so I didn’t bother. I’ve got a lot going on. Speaking of which, can you stop interrogating me and set up your demon alert?”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

“Yes sir, Mr Pixels sir. So, those Vatican black candles you mentioned, have you got any here?”

Akira clapped his hands together excitedly. “Yes indeed.”

Some thirty minutes later, and she had most of what she needed set up. She’d put a couple of planks across the top of the well and had one of Akira’s followers lash them into place with bungee cords and set everything else up on top of that.

She stepped back to admire her handiwork.  The centrepiece was a tripod, suspending a glass bowl over the well. Within that, she’d spliced two candles together, one above the other. The first, Akira’s black Vatican candle, the second an ordinary one from a hardware store. That was the one which would do the burning, not wanting to use up the darker one when it was the only one they had.

From a hook on the bottom of the bowl she’d hung three metres of twine and a pendant, so that she had a pendulum that swung just above the ink black water. This process, as with everything else, was more hunch than science. Wells acted as dowser multipliers, the older the better. And this well was at least two millennia old, having been dug by Romans long before the first stone of Brink Hall was laid.

Then there were silver chains running from the bowl like spokes of a wheel, out to heavy slates placed at random distances from the centre, forming a shape reminiscent of the star of chaos. On these she set to work, scribing runes with thick chalk lines.

She was still sketching these - some from memory, some from her notebook - when Akira came over.

“Are you done yet? Psychic Sybil says she can feel something.”

“That’s probably early onset dementia.” She changed the angle of the chalk, making it squeal, nails-on-blackboard.

Akira winced.

“Hey, quit it! So, how does it work?”

Toaster came over too, focussing his camera on the device. Argana waited until he was ready before she explained.

“Fundamentally, sympathetic magic. You told me you’ve connected Demoncoyn to the Vatican black candles, right? So, we have one of those, and a pendulum as an antenna. The runefield filters the input. Any being with a Boccioni-Klunes rating of six or more will set up a psychic resonance…”

“Haha, rocking. Psychic resonance, huh?”

“One hundred percent. It’s the mechanism by which most occult practitioners eventually go mad, and the people who hire them too.”

Akira gave her an impressed look.

“Are you done?”

“Nearly. It just needs this.”

She balanced a smaller tripod within the bowl, one of the metal ones use for Bunsen burners. On top of that she set a metal disk - just a jam jar lid - and a clay figurine. The figurine held a bell in one hand. It sat at the focal point of the entire contraption, a little above the second candle.

“This is St Christopher, on account of being above water…”

“Ok, yeah,” said Akira, holding his hands behind his back as he bent forward for a closer look.

“If the rest of the system picks up a surge of energy that resonates with the black candle – for example, if your Demoncoyn really summons something – some of that energy will cause the flame to blaze up.”

“Ah, and when the candle burns brighter, he softens and falls off.” Akira completed for her.

“Yes,” she agreed shortly, bit miffed that he’d beaten her to the punchline. “Go on, you’ve paid for it, you light it up.”

“Uh, Akira, there’s something you need to see…” Psychic Sybil called over. Her body language had changed. No longer slumped over her cards, she recoiled from her table.

“Hold on, I’m busy!” He opened a desk drawer, taking a novelty lighter from next to a box of Cuban cigars. He flicked it into life and set fire to the candle in the middle of Argana’s contraption.

They both stood back, watching as the tiniest curl of smoke rose up, tickling the underside of the disk with the miniature clay saint.

“Is that it?”

“Well, you didn’t expect it to arrive right now, did you?”

“No, but that would have been awesome! Toaster, you can cut the feed now. So, what now?”

“Now, you get out!” yelled Sybil. With one voluminous sleeve she swept her tarot cards from the table, sending them tumbling in the air like autumn leaves.

“Drama queen,” muttered Argana.

“It’s coming, I’m telling you, it’s coming!” yelled the psychic.

“Ha, she’s freaking out!” Akira and Toaster went over her, leaving Argana alone with her setup, watching the candle alone.

She blew out her cheeks, annoyed that Akira’s attention had been drawn away. It gave her the time to double check her work, anyway. She hadn’t exactly done it before, but she’d seen MacGillycuddy do it, and that was almost the same. Or, at least, he’d told her about it, once.

The arrival of the demon would cause the candle to flare up, toppling the little St Christopher. The falling statue would ring his little bell. Grand plan. There was no danger of burning the place down - a possibility that recent events had made her more than usually alert to - because the flare would be brief, only lasting the duration of the demon’s manifestation.

“Ah,” she said, to no one, “there’s the flaw.”

If the demon was already here in the world, the whole setup would do nothing.

Standing abruptly, she called out to the others. “Um, Akira-”

But Akira had his hands full. Sybil ripped her black wig from her head, throwing it the floor and stamping on it.

“I never wanted this!” she screamed. “It’s all supposed to be an act!”

Akira moved to help her, but she swatted him angrily away. Tore her billowing dress in her efforts to take it off, to divest herself of her costume.

“A little help here!” yelled Akira. There was a circle of people now, pressing in to see what was happening. One of the Pixelites broke free, running upstairs, yelling as they went. Argana only caught a snatch '-getting Sammy!'. Sammy, she hoped, would prove to be a medic.

Sybil fell thrashing to the floor. Beneath the shredded dress she wore cycling shorts and a gym shirt, so she was decent, just not dignified. Her eyes rolled up, showing swirling indigo where the whites should be.

“Hold her down!”

“No, she’s having a fit! Move the chairs!”

Argana left them to it. Not out of a lack of compassion - she couldn’t stand Psychic Sybil, but she didn’t hate her that much - but because another pair of hands would just get in the way. She picked up one of the tarot cards, turning it over. A black and red figure leered at her from it, with curved horns and a spikey tail. A background of pouring flames. Picking another up, she found it was exactly the same. They all were.

She looked around frantically. Her warding system, the flickering candle hanging over the well, had been too late. There was no doubt that Akira’s get rich quick scheme had already dragged something kicking and screaming from the void. What she needed to know now, was where it was.

With everyone busy looking after Sybil, the computers were untended. Finding one where the screen was unlocked, she planted herself down in front of it.

She pulled up the ForteanWatch website first, checking her account for notifications. Nothing. Well, that was a relief. She clicked through to a map of the British Isles.

“You want to zoom the map?” The computer asked in coy anime character tones, startling her. On her home machine - before it had died, anyway - it worked entirely by mouse. Clearly, Akira had customised his browsers.

“Show me the Peak District.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Derbyshire. North Derbyshire.”

“Zooming to North Derbyshire,” the machine confirmed.

The map scrolled and enlarged, tracking in on the Midlands, and then closer still until it showed a region with Buxton at the North-west corner and Matlock in the south east. Trotterwell and Bakewell occupied positions near the middle, surrounded by the green colour used to mark out National Park territory. Dots and icons flickered over it, like watching a lightning map.

It was an inexact science, triangulating social media posts. The noise to signal ratio was high. But still-

“Zoom on Trotterwell.”

It blipped up again, unmistakably. A purple icon, a big-toothed face with a pair of horns. The uneasy feeling in her chest grew.

“Select that one.”

“I’m sorry...” intoned the machine.

“Oh, I’ll do it myself.” She seized the mouse, clicking the little demon icon.

A new box opened, featuring a region drop-down and a jagged chart of mentions. She couldn’t get it to be more specific than the Wye Valley, so couldn’t be certain how close to Trotterwell the sightings were. But the chart told its own story, with demon mentions up over two hundred percent from the baseline.

“Is that bad?” said a voice behind her shoulder, making her jump. It was one the Pixelites, an impressionable woman with soft eyes and straight brown hair.

“Ah, no. Maybe. I don’t know yet.” Argana jabbed the keyboard, closing the window.

“Would you like to save results?” the computer asked.

“No”

“Saving results of demon search,” the machine said regardless.

Alarm crossed the Pixelite’s face.

“Is it going to be ok?”

“Everything is always ok”, Argana told her. She pushed out from the desk. “Come on Max, we’ve got places to be.”

“Where are you going?”

“There’s nothing left for me here. I’m overdue for some house-hunting.”

She did need somewhere proper to live, that much was true. But more than that, she needed to figure out where Akira’s demon was. And fast.

Burning issues

In the driving seat of his police interceptor, Fred Berkshire planted his foot. Ribbons of wailing blue light ricocheted off the townhouses as he flung the car through Trotterwell’s twisting streets. By rights, Moira McPhee, on the passenger side, should have been hanging white-gripped to the door handle, eyes wide. She wasn’t though, she was too busy smiling.

“Aye, it’s a wonderful little town at this speed, isn’t it?”

Right on the high street, half a mile out on Bakewell Road. Then left into the Summer Meadows council estate, a labyrinth of identical semi-detached houses.

At the end of the road, flames sprang eagerly into the near dusk. Blasting the horn, he zipped past the last few houses. Pulling up, he and Moira got out, leaving the emergency lights on. There was a quite a crowd, forming a semi-circle at the distance where their desire to see the disaster balanced their fear of the flames. The more helpful were trying to form a bucket chain, but most were making videos. The children among them watched his arrival with excited glee.

With sudden apprehension, Fred recognised the building. It belonged to the Scholes, a family known to hog police time with their antics and their troubles. This wasn’t going to be a straightforward case of a chip pan left unattended. He could feel it in his boots.

The roof was in, and the windows were out, black smoke belching from their ruined sockets. Three firefighters were in silhouette, wielding extinguishers. Their truck hadn’t arrived yet, that would have to come over from the station in Bakewell. These were the volunteers, who had come in their private cars. A gardeners’ van was on the opposite curb, a blue light magnetically attached to its roof.

“Mister! Mister Policeman!” squeaked a young boy at the edge of the crowd. Fred gave him a quick thumbs up but strode toward the inferno.

“Hey, can I help?” he called out as he approached the firefighters.

One of them turned.

“Oh hey, Freddie, can you get these people out of the way? Bertha will be here any second, I wouldn’t like them to get crushed under.”

That was Judith’s voice. Silhouetted with her back to the fire he hadn’t immediately recognised her, her firefighter’s helmet hiding her face, and her signature ponytail tucked away. She stood with her weight on one hip, balancing the mass of the fire extinguisher braced against the other.

“Moira, get those people out of the road, so they can get the engine through,” he delegated.

“On it!” The special constable turned and started bellowing at the crowd, ordering and cajoling.

He turned back toward the fire, feeling its heat against his face even from across the road. It was hard to see the house properly, blackened bricks against the inferno climbing from its interior. Judith threw aside the empty cylinder of the fire extinguisher, lugged a second one from her van. Without any hope of saving the Scholes’ home she rushed forward and sprayed the gap between the two houses, trying to hold it back from the adjoining property.

“Sir! Please sir!” came a small voice from somewhere near his shins.

He looked around, and then down. It was the boy who’d called him from the crowd, maybe seven years old. He put a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s not safe here. Get back behind the cordon.”

He shook his head.

“My gran saw something, Mr Policeman. She wanted me to…”

The child’s brain caught up and overtook his courage. His eyes went wide and he trembled, running away before Fred could reassure him.

He loped after, ducking under the police tape. The crowd parted for him and after a moment he spotted the child, now hiding behind the legs of a short wide woman.

“I’m Constable Frederick Berkshire,” he said, although he needed no introduction. “Your grandson thinks you wanted to speak to me?”

“Yes, Officer,” she nodded, setting a cascade of wobbles through her jowls while her blonde-over-grey hair remained stationary in stiff curls. He’d dealt with Mrs Wiggins before, mostly over the phone. They all had. She was forever dobbing her neighbours in for imaginary infractions.

“Go on, Mrs Wiggins,” he prompted.

“It’s them Scholes, innit?” she said in an emphatic mutter. “They keep bad company. I’ve always said they shouldn’t be round ‘ere, they should be in the city where they belong.”

Keeping his face impassive, Fred nodded. Not in agreement but to prompt her to continue.

“Well, it was this big fella, come down the road shouting and yelling. And not in any language that I’ve ever heard, either. Patty Scholes, she comes out, and she’s got a rolling pin in her hand, and she’s shouting back and saying he’s got no right.”

“Can you remember what she said?”

“She didn’t say, she was shouting. Wonder the whole neighbourhood couldn’t hear. Something about breaking a chord. Or an accordion. They’re a noisy lot, them Scholeses, I wouldn’t be surprised they got an accordion in there.”

With a crash a heavy beam fell in the roof of the burning house, sending up a swirl of embers and ash. If someone had done this, Fred was rapidly running out of time to get on their trail. The thought made his feet itchy, and he shifted his weight impatiently.

“Then what happened?”

“She threw the pin at him, didn’t she, and she obviously oughta not done that, because he came after her then. She ran back inside. Big fella, he got to the front garden, he must ‘av been carrying something, because it burst, and it looked for a moment like he was on fire. But he raised his arms to the sky, like this” - she arched her arms out and up, cardigan hanging like bat wings, fingers curled - “and then, well, the wall went in, didn’t it? The whole wall, caved in, whooof! Just like that.”

“And this big fella, what’d he look like?”

“I was coming to that, Officer,” she said, the glee glinting in her eyes. “I’ve lived in these hills seventy year, woman and girl, and I swear to you in the name of the good Lord that what I saw wasn’t human. He was too big to be. Got to have been eight foot. Maybe winged too.”

Fred looked hastily around. The firefighters. The crowd, whom Moira had cleared from the streets. There was no one who fit the description.

“Did you see-”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she said smugly. “He ran off down the cut through to Buttercup Crescent, that leads off to—”

“Thanks!” Fred bit the word off, already steering into a sprint. He could see the gap between the housing plots, fifty meters away, fronted with a white rail. A footpath led from it, cutting through the estate and out into the farmland beyond, down toward the river. He had to hope that the big fella was slow, or he’d never catch him before he made it to the woods.

Moira stepped in front of him.

“Hey—” she managed. He almost bowled her over.

“Chasing arsonist,” he snapped.

“What…”

“Stay here. Control crowd!” he yelled, not turning his head to see if she’d heard.

He sprinted as far as the footpath. A pair of railings formed a chicane at the top, intended to slow cyclists. He vaulted them, booted feet splashing in the puddle on the far side. And then he was running hard, weaving between nettles and bins, slicing through the dark spaces between lamp posts. The path crossed roads at right angles. He ran in front of a car, holding his hand palm out toward it, hearing its brakes grind as he sprinted onward.

Two hundred meters ahead, where a solitary lamp marked the point where the path left the town and entered the fields, he caught his first glimpse of his prey. A black silhouette flashed under the lamp, huge legs pumping, and was gone into the night.

The man, if that’s what he was, was even bigger than Mrs Wiggins had said.

Fred kept running. But now, it wasn’t just the exercise that kept his heart hammering.

As he ran, Fred loosened the poppers on the taser pouch at his waist, trying not to dwell on what would happen if he caught the monster. Eyewitnesses were notoriously unreliable, of course, but it was hard to imagine Mrs Wiggins mistaking a run-of-the-mill arsonist for an eight foot tall, winged horror. He vaulted the railings onto the path. Twisted through the bars used to keep cycles out.

Police protocol had a clear line of escalation of force. Talking sternly was the default starting point, followed by pepper spray, tasers and, if one absolutely had to, the truncheon. If things had gotten totally out of control, an armed response team could be called in. Beyond that, it was understandably sketchy on what level of force could legitimately be used against a supernatural perpetrator.

A year earlier the Police Federation had lobbied the government for every force to have its own specialist paranormal response unit. It had come to a vote in the Commons, in the end. The name hadn’t helped, the General Holistic Occult Special Teams Bill. General ridicule, more like. And the religious right had come at them too, not wanting to put occult responsibilities in the hands of secular powers. So, the status quo had remained, that every force had a contract with an exorcist.

There were three things wrong with having Father MacGillycuddy on tap. Firstly, he was older than he looked, and that was old enough. He should have retired eons ago. Secondly, he had to be summoned from Liverpool and refused to drive himself. Lastly, and most significantly, he wasn’t here right now wearing out the soles of his boot chasing down the whatever-it-was.

Fred burst out of the town, running down into the meadow. He interrupted his own inner monologue, spotting a figure one field further on, hard to see in the gathering dark.

“Hey! Stop there!” he yelled, knowing it was futile, still running down the slope. The long grass snagged the fastenings of his boots as he ran.

The figure ran on ahead, only stopping when it had almost reached the riverbank.

It was as big as Ms Wiggins had told him. Bigger, even. And right now, it was turning toward him with slow deliberate menace.

With two arms and two legs, it could be called humanoid if you were feeling generous, looking like a bunch of irregular rocks with lizard-skin stretched over them. It had no neck, the torso tapering into a giant flat head from which tendrils dangled, a hideous meat beard. Vestigial folds rippled along its back, flaring over what should have been its shoulders to form approximate leathery wings.

Fred stopped running, a primal fear putting the brakes on his legs.

A single baleful eye glared at him, a luminous globe the size of a rotten grapefruit and the same colour, glistening twinkles intermingled with a patina of decay. The creature took two steps toward him.

“Er,” said Fred, clearing his throat when his voice didn’t work at the first attempt. “I’m going to need a name, pal, you know, for the arrest report.”

It took another step toward him, arms swinging heavily at its sides. It did everything heavily.

“Back it up, human,” it said, in a voice that he heard more in his sternum than his ears. “I’m not here for you.”

“I’m arresting you for attempted murder, and destruction of pr—”

It lunged.

Fred threw himself flat, springing the taser from his pocket as he did so.

Twin wires sped from the device, stabbing into the monster’s barn-like chest. There were sparks. Still the creature was coming at him, unstoppably, as he squeezed the trigger for all his might.

Unable to watch his doom descending, he screwed his eyes tight.

Which meant he didn’t see it disappear. He felt the heat on his face, and the flash permeated his eyelids. When he dared to open his eyes again, the monster was gone. Before him, the grass was flattened into a circle, burned black in the centre, and a scorched trail led the twenty metres to the riverbank.

He looked at the taser cables, now half their original length, and truncated in burnt wisps.

“Damn,” he said. And then again, for emphasis. “Damn. Ah, that paperwork’s going to break me.”

Standing up, Fred unbuckled his torch from his utility belt and swept it over the scene. The circle of flattened, burnt grass. He raised the beam, sweeping it over the field in a steady arc. He wasn’t far from the river, tall willows standing in stark silence against the cloudless, star filled sky. Back away up the hill, off to the side, the squat dark mass that was a thick copse of oak and birch.

With his free hand he activated his uniform radio.

“This is Constable Berkshire, pursuit ended, over.” He said, startled by how out of breath he was. His lungs wheezed like broken bellows.

“That you, Berkshire? You sound like sh—” Moira crackled, her final word lost to static.

He waited a moment, gulping his breath.

“You there?” she asked, after a pause.

“Sure, you’re meant to say over when you’re done. Over.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Oh, sorry, over.”

“Ah, yes, sorry. Sorry, over.”

“Is anyone else with you, Moira? I’m going to need someone to get down here. I tasered the perp. Over.”

“You tasered him? Have you got him?” she gasped. “Er, over.”

“No. But he was definitely supernatural, and he vanished after I put the shockers on him. If it’s just you there, stay where you are, but if Charles or anyone is about can you send them down to secure this scene too? There’s like a blast area or something where he left, forensics will want to see it. Over.”

“Wow, you get all the coolest jobs, Berkshire.”

“Keep it professional, Moira. “

His legs hurt, his heart was only now settling toward its usual rate. His right arm felt like he’d torn something, and it was just waiting for later to tell him. That thing he’d caught up with put the fear in him. It could have ripped his head off without blinking. Or turned his soul inside out. And yet, despite all the obvious downsides, he loved his job. Perhaps because of them.

“Charles is on his way. Over.”

During the conversation, Fred had let his torch dip, so that it now gazed uselessly at his feet. He heard the grass parting, very close. People - he hoped they were people - moving through it, toward him. Startled, he whipped the torch up, dazzling Patty Scholes a dozen metres away. She threw her freckled arms over her face defensively. There was a half dozen other people a few steps behind her.

“Did you have to?” she called out angrily.

“Moira, I’m going to have to go. Over and out.”

Fred took a step backward, swinging the torch in an arc to check if anyone was flanking him. He kept it a little lower this time, not wanting to dazzle anyone. Taken by surprise it had felt like an ambush, but no one was trying to rush him.

“What do you want?”

“My night-sight back, you flipping idiot. Ryan, give me a hand here, I can’t see where the blasted copper is.”

A gangly youth with wavy dark hair and a jaw that seemed too big for his narrow face stepped to her side. He grabbed her arm and slung it over his coat hanger shoulders.

“Here, Ma,” he said.

Fred stretched his arm out for them to stop. “Don’t trample my evidence. The crew in lab coats are going to want to see this.”

Patty stopped her forward stumble, recognising the sense of it. She signalled her companions to do the same.

With his torch pointed at their feet so as not to dazzle them, there was still enough bounce light for Berkshire to recognise the newcomers, or most of them. Patty’s foster kids, with ages he guessed to be between twelve and fifteen.

“Let’s start this again, now I can see you. Mrs Wiggins said you were yelling at the arsonist, before he set fire to your house. Did you know him?

“Know him? No. Know of him, yes. But he shouldn’t be here. Church messed it up.”

Fred adjusted his helmet, so that he could rub at his temples.

“You’re out of your depth, Constable. We come down here to see that you’re ok. Now I see you are, we’ll be going again.”

At the top of the field a torch was visible, swinging as it came toward them, pushing an oval of light through the tall grass. He couldn’t see the person behind it, veiled by the night, but Fred recognised the steady, plodding gait from the way the torch moved.

“Down here, Sergeant Peel!” he called.

There was an answering call, but he turned his attention back to Patty.

“We’re going to need a statement.”

“I’m sure you are. But what we’re going to need, and first, is housing. That’s everything we own up there, in’ fire.”

“Yeah, I’ll get onto the council, we’ll sort that out. But it’s best to get an eyewitness statement as soon as possible after an incident.”

“What, you think I’m going to forget a bloody great demon smashing my house in? You must think I’m soft in' head.”

“Demon…?”

“Nowhere to live, no statement.”

Berkshire sighed, looking at the five children gathered close to the matriarch. To his mind, both finding accommodation and getting a statement were important, but only one of them could be done right here. Still, it was obvious that she wasn’t shifting.

Charles Peel reached them, stepping into the light.

“Evening, Constable,” he said, his voice as flat as ever. “Ms Scholes. What’s up then, Fred? Moira said something about you catching your man, but him vanishing.”

Fred illuminated the patch of crushed, burnt grass with his torch.

“Yeah, pretty much. Can you get some tape up around this, please? We’ll get someone out to look at it.”

“Looks like someone had a barbeque, to be honest,” muttered Peel, unconvinced.

“That’s right, and they had the rest of my taser with their chips.” Fred held up the taser, its housing slightly melted, the two wired ending in charred stumps.

Peel whistled.

“Ok, then. It beats crowd duty.”

He started banging a stake into the ground with a rock near the edge of the circle.

“Let’s get back up to the town,” he said to Patty. “It’s not like we can sort anything for you here, hanging out in a dark field.”

“First sensible thing you’ve said, bobby. Lead on.”

As he walked back toward the lights of Trotterwell, she fell in behind him, leading her foster children like a mother duck with a trail of ducklings. Sullen, stompy ducklings.

“I’ll tell you this much though, for nowt. It was a demon, she said.”

Thinking back to the thing he’d seen, that had stared him down before he tasered it, he could believe it. He shuddered.

“We used to have a name for him," she added. "We called him Balor-El.”

The joy of maps

“Why didn’t you call me yesterday?” Argana Zeit demanded of her phone, between mouthfuls of scrambled eggs. She was eating at a breakfast bar in Melvyn’s apartment. She had been sure he didn’t have a breakfast bar, it turned out to be behind two plastic statues of Isis and a roll of heavy brocade. Melvyn wouldn’t mind her moving it all.

“Ah, I’m sorry. It was mayhem, last night. I didn’t get out of the station until the small hours.” To be fair to Berkshire, he did sound dead knackered on his end of the phone.

She couldn’t see him - he rarely used video when calling. So, she decided to imagine him in his pyjamas, despite the fact he was probably already back at work.

“And it wrecked Patty Scholes’ house?”

“Burned it right down. Judith and the rest of the fire crew stopped it from being any worse, saved the house next door, but there wasn’t much they could do for the Scholes house.”

“Well, that escalated fast. Any idea why it went for her?”

“I don’t know. Wrong place, wrong time, I guess. Only- I don’t know, this is a bit weird. She seemed to know a lot about what was going on. She even named the demon.”

Argana was so excited she dropped her fork, spattering egg onto the floor. Max went to work cleaning it up.

“Really? Which one?” She demanded.

“I’m sorry, in all the confusion, I didn’t write it down. Sounded like barbell.”

“That’s heavy,” said Argana with a giggle.

“I said sounds like,” he groaned. Because he sounded grumpy, she added a hot water bottle to her mental image of Berkshire-in-pyjamas. And a cup of hot chocolate. That should cheer him up.

But time to be serious.

“Was it Ba’al?” she said, naming the first in a long list of demons and monsters that came to mind.

“Ba-who? No, I don’t think so.”

“Baba Yaga then? She’s not usually considered a demon, though. Bayard? Baphomet?”

“None of those, I’m pretty sure.”

She dipped a piece of toast in the ketchup at the edge of her plate.

“Barbatos? Barabas?”

“Keep going.”

“Bayemon. Er, Baylor?”

“Yes!” Exclaimed Berkshire, with conviction. “That one!”

“What, Baylor? It doesn’t sound anything like Barbell.”

“Yes, it does. Anyway, Patty put another syllable on the end. Baylor-el. Does that mean something?”

“Only if he comes from Krypton,” she mumbled, her mouth full of toast.

He didn’t laugh.

“I was thinking back to Pauline Hardcastle, and her moral outrage brigade. They’re going to be all over this. It’ll proper vindicate all that grief they’ve been giving Akira.”

“It’s not his fault!” she objected.

“It, um, kind of is his fault. His software summoned the thing.”

“We don’t know that.”

Phone tucked against her chin, she got up, leaving the rest of her breakfast. She went to collect her keys from where they hung on the antlers of a miniature elk. Max, sensing the direction this was taking, waited keenly by the door, still licking egg off his chin.

“Where’s the demon now? I’ll hot foot it over there and unsummon the thing!” she enthused, hunting one-handed for her bag of occult gubbins.

“There’s no need,” said Berkshire, his voice smooth with a hint of triumph. “I’ve tasered him into the next world.”

That flummoxed her. She sat down again.

“You did what? That shouldn’t have been possible. Your taser’s not exactly an unlicensed nuclear accelerator.”

“I’m telling you it happened. Why, who is he, exactly?”

“Only the one-eyed king of the fish demon Fomorians, the implacable enemies of the ancient Welsh and Irish.”

“Oh. Great. What was he doing in Derbyshire?”

“The gods only know. I’ve got a theory though that it’s connected to the book.”

“Go on.”

“I don’t know. It’s this thing Melvyn tried to get, but he couldn’t, because Akira did. And he’s using it as part of his Demoncoyn generation system, though don’t ask me how. The book has to have some connection to Balor-El.”

“It doesn’t matter now, if he stays where he’s gone.”

“Big if,” she said.

There was a moment of silence, them both reflecting on this question. Minds-eye Berkshire tucked himself under a duvet, pulling it to his chin.

“Don’t nod off now,” she told him.

“What?”

“Never mind,” she said hastily, a little embarrassed. And then, keen to change the subject, added “I have some better news on the case, by the way.”

“Elmo?” he asked, sounding brighter.

“Exactly. Just before you rang, I heard from Yasmin. She’s tracked the location he was found in Grindleford. I’m on my way to meet her.”

It wasn’t much later that Argana was back at Yasmin’s place. Unsurprisingly, it still looked like a cyclone had been through a second-hand store. Her friend didn’t care, and neither did she. But then, apart from when they prised her out for a holiday, Yasmin never left the place. She ushered Argana through to the kitchen, where a pair of monitors were attached to a computer in the sink.

“Here’s the thing,” said Yasmin, proudly. As Argana watched, a second monitor sparked into life.

It showed a map of the fields north of Grindleford, above the tunnel, superimposed on a satellite image. The image seemed to be late summer, one of the hotter ones, a lot of the vegetation yellowed.

“What am I looking at?” asked Argana. “That’s not just Google maps?”

“No, I’m going to put some data on in a minute. But first, you see these?”

Yasmin waved the cursor over a partial circle of grey blobs to the west of the larger Owler Tor.

“That’s the stone circle in Lawrence Field,” said Argana confidently. “It’s not always visible, we’ve got lucky.”

“Luck, is it?” said Yasmin, with a quirk to her mouth.

“Yes, you’re very clever. And this data you were going to show me?”

“This blew my mind. You were asking how to find something hidden in the Peaks, right? I was thinking, you’d look for where people don’t go. Well, I got a lot of transmission data. Y’know, how runners upload their routes, and the like? These are runner routes, the last 1000 to be uploaded at this location over the last, I guess, 6 years.”

She jabbed a button and a mesh of fine red lines appeared over the map. Argana leaned in for a better look. There was a great deal of overlap, the runners’ routes predictably converging at stiles, gates, down footpaths, along sheep tracks. There were stray lines too, but not so many that there weren’t a few areas of the map that nobody had gone into at all.

“Is it increasing? The numbers of runners, I mean?”

“Sort of. But also, not really. It’s all relative…”

Argana put her head on one side, mimicking an expression Max might have made. She wasn’t following.

“Try that again.”

“Here.” Yasmin brought up a chart on her screen, a rising jagged line in green. “This is the number of running routes uploaded against time, on a rolling 7-day average,” she said.

“So, there are more runners!” exclaimed Argana, punching the air.

“No. Because this,” Yasmin brought up a second line in blue, also rising, “is the installed user base of runners uploading their routes. It’s the same angle, see? You divide one by the other. There aren’t more runners. There’s just more runners reporting their results.”

“So – you dragged me all the way over here just to tell me I was wrong? Gods Yasmin, you could have just done that by phone!”

Yasmin rolled her eyes.

“No, you ungrateful wench, I dragged you all the way over here to show you this.”

She brought up a new array of lines, in yellow this time, more adding each second. They were still clustered around the entrance points of the fields but meandered much than the red lines had.

“These are - what, people on foot?” asked Argana.

“Got in one.” Yasmin clicked her fingers. “From people’s individual trackers. It’s not meant to be public, but if you speak Russian, y’know, there’s a lot of unofficial data available on the ‘net. You can…”

As each wave of new lines was added to the map, something very strange was becoming apparent. In the middle of Lawrence’s Field, a clearing was evident. It seemed as if every square metre of the moorland above Padley Gorge had been walked upon, much of it many times. All except a gap in the middle, about 20m across, that went un-trodden.

Argana clapped her hands with excitement.

“That blank spot – that’s where the boy was found? What is it?”

“I’ve no idea. But I’ve checked the data, run a Monte Carlo simulation on the random deviation of the walkers, and the odds of it arising by chance are over a billion to one. Whatever it is, it’s real!”

“Oh, I could kiss you!”

Yasmin recoiled, waving her hands in front of her face.

“Ughh, please don’t.”

Findings in the fields

Argana walked down the steep slope into Nether Padley Gorge. She’d left the car on the stone-walled lane on the hill crest above. It was on double yellows, where there was some sign about police fines. She figured that was ok, though, the police were far too over-stretched to be monitoring parking offences in the hills. The Burbage Brook wound like a drunken snake, cutting the turf into soft shapes like great pillows. It was narrower than it became further downstream, and she chose to cross it via the stepping stones rather than the short footbridge. It was just more fun. But not as much fun as Max was having, bounding through the shallows, soaked up to the ears. He shook himself off in the sun on the other side.

It took some twenty minutes to climb the hill to the location Yasmin had given them, keeping the woods on one side and the squat hulk of Owler Tor on the other. The bracken that covered the lower portions of the field crunched underfoot, grown brittle in the summer heat. As it curved toward the horizon, the higher portions of the hill sported heather and sporadic, low hunched rocks. Keeping her eye on her phone, Argana stumbled on through the undergrowth, Max pushing through it alongside. On her device, Yasmin’s data was superimposed over the Ordnance Survey map.

“This way,” she said, stepping from the main path onto a rabbit track.

As she followed the map, the paths got ever narrower, reinforced by fewer and fewer people. Looking up, she saw a thick crop of vegetation, taller and darker green than anything else in sight. Most tellingly, she hadn’t been able to see it from the bottom of the field.

“That’ll be it,” she muttered to herself.

Double-checking the coordinates, she found her phone had lost the satellites. The signal too.

“Hold up, dog, we’re going to retrace our steps a little.”

Walking back down the slope, she waited for the moment that the phone re-established its connections. That was the limit of the magic then, still protecting the original hiding place. She turned on a second app, designed for cavers and underground workers. It wasn’t as exciting as its title, ‘Dead or Reckoner’, but it could record her path without access to external data. Some combination of acceleration and gyroscopic measurements informed it. She could use it later to confirm the last bit of Yasmin’s map readings.

Returning to the patch of dark vegetation, she took a moment to prepare herself for whatever lay beyond.

Max pushed past her, shoving his matted fur through the gap in the plant fronds. His frantic barks set her heart racing, even as she struggled to push the brambles apart.

What she saw took her breath away.

Although she knew at once that it wasn’t, her mind told her that the clearing contained a cabbage the size of a fridge. Evil looking bristles covered it. A puckered opening the shape of a bivalve’s maw. Slightly open.

Max hung back, growling softly at it. It looked empty. Dead, the edges of its leaves turning brown. But unmistakeably similar to the one Elmo had been found in. There was even a space next to it, the earth still disturbed, where he had been ripped free by his rescuers.

She scooped up a stick. Stepping past the nervous dog, she poked the plant, at the edge of the opening. One whole side fell away, creaking. The inside was smooth, pink like a petal, but spotted with blight and mould. Max, recovering his composure, came forward and looked at it with her.

“I wonder if there was someone else in here. We should get the experts in.”

Max looked at her, big-eyed.

“You’re right, I am the expert.”

The animal pushed past her knees, wriggled through the tangled vegetation behind the dead plant. Barked.

She followed him, breaking spiny branches aside. Just the other side, in a tiny clearing of its own, was another of the plants. This one, bulbous and green, clearly still alive.  And there, unmistakably, a hand just hanging out, trapped in the plant’s seam. Its fingers curled over the lip like someone fallen asleep in the bath too long. Max stood alert, pointing his snout at the hand.

“There’s someone in there,” she told him, unnecessarily. The outer leaves were partially translucent, a dark shape hanging within it that could be human.

Max licked the protruding fingers, but they didn’t react. A queasy horror rose in Argana’s throat. Was it a corpse?

“Back it up fur-ball, I need some room.”

She tried prising the vegetable tomb open with her fingers. Lacking the necessary strength, she searched for a suitable tool. Pushing her trainers through the grass, she felt the unyielding edge of a small rock with her toes. She gripped it with both hands and wiggled it free. It was perfect for breaking-and-entering a plant sarcophagus. Shoe sized, sharp on one edge, and almost too heavy to lift.

But lift it she did, dropping it against the surface with the same sound as making salad with an axe.

It popped open with a sound like a giant bean pod breaking. Sap dripped from the lip, and as she stepped back, whatever seal held it gave way. The upper frond waved into the air, creating a gap about five centimetres wide. She could just peer in.

Inside, curled into a foetal position and entangled in stems, a young teenager lay. They didn’t look dead, but neither could she see them breathing. A thick leaf covered their face. Reaching in, she pushed it aside. A blurry, unfocusable swirl of flesh tones met her, a vortex where the face should have been. It was startling enough that she fell backward, landing abruptly on her rump, crushing more grass down.

Max whirled in circles, barking in excitement and alarm.

“Quiet down, boy,” she hissed, letting her irritation at falling boil over into anger.

She took some photos, and then attempted to ring Berkshire. She couldn’t, of course, because within the glade there was no signal. It would have been more surprising if there had been. Unsure if the fae magic would let her find her way in again, she removed a ball of string from her backpack, tying it to the victim’s wrist.

By the time she’d got far enough away to get a minimum signal, she was pretty much at the end of her length of string.

“Hey, Berk, you’ll never guess what I’ve found,” she said, after she got through.

“Ms Zeit. Where are you? You’re all crackly.”

“I’m out Grindleford way, it doesn’t matter exactly. What’s important is that I’ve found another victim. Faceless, like Elmo back at the hospital.”

“Ha, awesome. She’s a clever one, that Yasmin.”

“Hey, I’m the one out here, following my nose! Can you get, like, a forensics team out here? With some high-powered botanists, and all?”

“What about an ambulance crew?”

“Didn’t I ask for that?”

“No, no you didn’t. I’ll put in some calls with the higher-ups, we’ll get an air ambulance out. You stay where you are – and this does exactly matter, actually, where are you?”

Argana took her phone away from her ear and tapped through to her OS app, reading him the map coordinates.

“I’ve gotta go now,” he said. “You just—”

But she cut him off first, out of habit.

She sat for a moment, contemplating, Max against her knees. A hiker coming past gave her a curious smile.

“Taking your shrub for a walk, are you?” they said.

“Oh.” She was still holding the length of string, trailing back to the vegetation.

The hiker followed her gaze, but just shrugged, evidently not seeing the teenager hanging half out of what might be a very big Brussels sprout. The intensity of her gaze, on the other hand, was not lost on him.

“I’ll, er, leave you to it…”

He went on his way, just a little faster, muttering about how the tourists got crazier every year.

She heard them coming before they saw them. What started as that low insistent thud of a washing machine heard through a wall becoming a pulsing wave of pressure as they came over the first hill. Two helicopters, one in ambulance markings and the other in police. A handful of walkers stopped at the top and bottom of the field, gawping as the machines landed, blowing the tall grass into crop-circle shapes as they did so.

There were crew people on the ground as soon as the engines stopped, jumping out of the doors and ducking under the slowing blades. She waved but, three hundred meters away, they didn’t see her. When Max barked for their attention though, that worked. Berkshire ran ahead of his companions, his gait recognisable before she could clearly make out his face. He always ran, she thought, with a terrible seriousness. The Ministry of Un-silly Walks.

“Over here!” she called out.

He reached her before the rest, the other two officers having paused to help the paramedics unload their equipment.

“Ms Zeit,” he said, “so, um, I hesitate to ask, but what’s at the end of the string?”

“There’s a glamour on the site. You can’t see it, you can’t walk through it, not without knowing it’s there first.”

He glanced across the foliage, his eye following the red string into the undergrowth.

“Figures. It’s never straight forward, is it?”

“Constable Berkshire!” A barrel-chested man called out, wearing a police uniform bespeckled with rank insignia. “This the young lady who called it in?”

“Chief Inspector Willington, this is Argana Zeit. She’s a paranormal investigator on our payroll.”

Argana barely had time to brush the mud off her palm before he grabbed her hand in his and shook it with the steadfastness of a train carriage link.

“Marvellous!”

The paramedics caught up, faces flushed from loping across the heather, carrying kit bags between them.

“Where’s the casualty?” asked the frontrunner, without any formalities.

Argana was about to tell them when her ears, still ringing from the copters arriving, picked out a new and ominous sound. A deep, earth gurgling rumble. The sound of strained metal. And something else, like a giant panning for gold.

The others heard it too, turning and staring back up the hill.

Beneath the helicopters, the ground was shaking.

Their two pilots, who had got out after everyone else, were closest. One ran toward them, the other away, fear distorting his face.

She caught Berkshire’s eye.

“Go!” she yelled. “See what’s happening! I’ll take the medics to the abductee!” He nodded briskly, span on his heel, and sprinted toward the stricken ‘copters.

Turning to the paramedics, Argana pulled the string taut. “Follow me!”

Argana’s piece of string took her right back to the cabbage, the hand still hanging out. The paramedics followed her, a curly haired woman named Laura and a squat, heavy-browed man named Elijah. A third struggled along behind them, dragging a heavy box.

“Tada!” she declared.

The paramedics following her stopped. To their credit, they kept their jaws closed. It had to be the strangest thing they’d ever seen, even though they’d been trained to do their jobs first and worry about all the weird second.

“Are they alive?” she asked them.

Laura stepped forward and took the teenager’s hand in hers. Turned it until she found the pulse in the wrist.

“Yep.”

“Step back, please, Miss,” said Elijah, moving around her.

“Hey, I found them!” Argana complained.

“Yes, and we’re going to get him out,” Elijah said evenly.

“Him?” she asked. She hadn’t been able to guess the teenager’s sex or gender.

“Man’s hands,” said Laura, spreading the teenager’s fingers out like she was fanning cards.

“Ok,” said Argana, not convinced that it was as conclusive as the paramedic was making out.

They had one of the kit bags out by this stage, the third paramedic setting up several monitoring devices. It wasn’t until they had a heart monitor clipped to one of those trailing fingers and an IV line hooked to the wrist that they were ready to fully open the aperture.

Argana watched them, puzzled at their tentativeness. “Weren’t any of you here last time? When they found Elmo?”

Elijah shook his head. The brawniest of the paramedics, he took a decidedly un-medical looking device from the bag. A crowbar. Inserting it into the opening, he wrenched it. The plant opened up, at first resisting, then all at once, with a cascade of popping sounds. The medic fell over, the crowbar spinning from his grasp. It narrowly missed Argana’s shins.

There, suspended the vines that trailed around him, was an older teenager. He wore blue jeans and a white shirt, both pristine apart from the sap, and oversize orange trainers. Just like Elmo, there was a swirling void where his face should be.

Instinctively, Argana turned away. As she did, she stepped over the threshold of something, an invisible line in the terrain. The bracken behind her, which she had though empty, she suddenly saw was not. She pushed it aside. Her eyes went wide.

“Hey, folks, there’s more of them.”

Like eggs in a vast nest, five more of the great bulbous plants huddled amid the vegetation. Their glamour broken for the first time. The plants had some method of synchronisation. Triggered perhaps by the one the paramedics had opened, the first of the plants quivered and split, disgorging a teenage girl who slid unconscious out of it. Then the next did, and the one after that, each with the raucous pops and splatter of sap.

A couple of the medics pushed passed her, running to the first of the children to check for vital signs.

They were all of them busy. Frantically so. That left only Argana with the time to step back, and take it all in. They’d found six teenagers in all. Each of them missing a face. As far as she could make out, they had three girls and two boys, and one don’t-know. Their clothing, skin tone and hair varied, suggesting they had been taken from different places and families.

A message in stone

A haze seemed to pass through Fred’s vision as he ran out of the clearing, pushing through the bracken. It disappeared behind him as if it had never been there, hidden by the protective glamour. But that wasn’t what he was looking at, anyway.

The pilot, halfway up the hill, turned back and yelled at him. “It’s the ‘copter! It’s a landslide!”

It wasn’t though, not as far as he could tell from this distance. Neither vehicle had moved, but the ground between them was moving. It was heaving, the grass tilting and tumbling, small rocks springing from it, as if some vast bubble was rising beneath it.

He ran toward them, loping slowly to check his footing, the uneven ground lurking beneath a third of a metre of spiralling heather.

The pilot understandably hesitated at the edge of the disturbed ground, waiting for him to catch up. When he did her face was pale, almost panicked.

“What do we do? Should we call mountain rescue? It’s got to be a sinkhole, right?”

The thing about holes, in Fred’s opinion, was that they generally went in rather than out. And the ground was definitely rising. The cracks and shaking grass showed its area though, and they were just outside it. Which was fine for them but, alarmingly, it had spread under the nearest ski of the police ‘copter.

“We’ll back up, that’s what we’ll do,” he said, putting a hand on the woman’s shoulder to ease her away.

“No.”

She tore jerked herself away, sprinted the last few meters to the chopper, and vaulted into the cabin. It wasn’t even her vehicle, as she was the paramedic pilot rather than the police one, but even so she rammed the ill-fitting helmet over her short dark hair and started poking at the buttons.

Fred had followed his own advice and stepped back. The bulging of the ground paused, quivering as if gathering itself, and then something under it thrust upward again. Sods of earth tumbled away, and he could see new rock, blue grey, breaking through toward daylight. The helicopter, blades slowly turning, wobbled disturbingly as the ground rippled under it.

“Get out!” he yelled.

She couldn’t hear him over the engine, although she should have felt it. The chopper, titled at 45 degrees, failed, the first spinning blade biting into the dark soil. Fred ducked the shower earth and stone that came at him. A fragment of metal took his police helmet off, pinwheeling into the wind, a section of blade embedded through the Derbyshire Constabulary crest. That was one hat that was never going to get worn again.

The helicopter tipped onto its side, the shaking earth threatening to swallow it. Fred had seen videos of soil liquefaction in earthquake simulations, and it was a whole lot more frightening when it was happening in front of his eyes. The pilot, screaming curses at the universe, was struggling to free herself, entangled in the belts that were meant to save her life, not damn her.

Something huge and dark burst out of the ground, massive and unyielding.

It was instinct really, not a conscious decision, which had Fred running to her. He skipped across rocks like stepping stones, scrambling up the side of the helicopter as soon as he reached it. The side door, the impromptu roof now the vehicle was keeled over, sported a quick release handle. Leaning as far to the side as he could he gripped it and yanked, and the door jettisoned itself on mechanical mountings.

“Help!” screamed the pilot, her voice an octave up from when he’d heard her before.

Then he was inside, cutting at the straps with a multitool. It was mere seconds, but it felt like it took forever. The screen was covered in dirt, swelling up it like a tide, and the cabin rocked alarmingly. Hooking an arm under her armpit, he pulled her upright. Then, freed, she thrust her elbows out of the doorway and scrambled up. He didn’t waste any time following her.

The still trembling ground prevented them from regaining their balance and they crawled, slithered, scrambled and clawed the few metres to safety, clinging on to each other for support when they needed to.

With a belch, the earth claimed the helicopter. The cabin dipped all the way underground, glass and metal imploding with a sound like a catering truck being dropped from Blackpool Tower. Only the tail remained, pointing out at a 45-degree angle like a modern monolith.

“Blow me down. That was close,” panted the pilot.

Berkshire, breathing heavily, just nodded. Now that the ground seemed to have stabilised, he finally got a look at the thing that had emerged from it.

Three huge boulders leaned against one another, forming a tripod, each one the size of a minibus. They bore no lichen or pock marks, only strange, faceted planes as if they had been freshly chipped from the underlying gritstone. Between them they held aloft a fourth rock, the largest of them all. Disc-shaped like a giant tabletop. But for the lack of weathering and the broken soil, it could have been there a thousand years.

While the pilot lay on her back and gawped at it, propped up on her elbows behind her, Fred got cautiously to his feet. Finding the ruined ground steady again, he took a few tentative steps toward the structure.

Etched into the top boulder, above what he was already thinking of as an entrance, was a series of letters and numbers. Chiselled out and inlaid with malachite.

The pilot, having recovered her composure, came up level with him. She stared at the same thing. “What is that, some kind of code?”

“No,” he said slowly, his voice full of awe. He tapped the remaining epaulette of his torn uniform.

“That’s my police I.D. number.”

In the name of Ryan

Every old town has it, a street that was once opulent, but the grandiose houses have run down, subdivided into shabby bedsits and damp basement flats. The kind of place where there are beer cans in the gutter, cars with hand-blacked taillights, and speed bumps every fifty metres. In Trotterwell, that’s Cosmos Road, and the side streets around it. Even Argana felt happier locking her car when she left it there.

It was two days after the discovery of the abandoned children, now secretly stashed in Judith’s greenhouse, and Argana was catching up on her chores. The most significant of which was finding somewhere to live. She’d seen a disappointing ground floor room that had once been a kitchen, still sporting tiled splashback around the walls at counter-height. It at least made for an entertaining headboard. On the up-side, the landlord had liked Max - most people did - and offered her use of the garden to exercise him.

She’d get back to them soon. In the meantime, she had three other places to see. As she and Max were leaving the Crimea Hotel, a gangly youth passed them on the steps, black hair piled above his pallid face.  He was wearing low slung jeans and as he bounded up the steps to the building, something fell from his back pocket. A wallet.

“Hey!” She scooped it up, flipping it to see what name to call out. “Ryan! You dropped something!”

He turned, puzzled. Seeing her holding the wallet, he put his hand to his back pocket, checking.

She passed it to him.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. “I forgot to put a chain on it this morning.”

“Ryan Arcadia Scholes… would you be one of Patty Scholes brood? What are you doing here?”

He stood uncertainly in the doorway for a moment, then came back down to street level. He squinted at her for a moment, then smiled.

“Awright,” he said, his voice a sort of gruff monotone. “Aren’t you that bobby’s mate? The one who caught our arsonist?”

“Yeah, I work with him. Sometimes.”

“I’m looking for another crib, aren’t I? The council’s got us in a B&B over at Hadfield Close, but it’s well cramped. What about you, and doggo here?”

“Heh. Well, you won’t’ believe it, but our flat burned down too.”

“There’s a lot of it going around. We’re, like, trend setters.”

“Ours burnt down before yours did,” she said, immediately regretting her petulance.

He eyed her suspiciously for a moment before bursting into laughter.

“Honestly, it’s good to know it’s not just us.”

“How’s the family doing? How’s your ma?”

“You know our Patty,” he said proudly. “She doesn’t let nothing hold her down.”

Argana nodded at that. Pretty much everything she knew of the Scholes matriarch was second hand info, and all of it related to her unwillingness to back down when it came to looking after her own. It was odd that Ryan called her by name, but she a knew a minority of people who did that with their parents, and she’d never figured out a common pattern. Perhaps it meant nothing.

“Jemma and Silas left though.”

“Oh?”

“They’re the twins. They do everything together. They got nervous though, and they left.”

“That’s sad. Where’d they go?”

“They’re sixteen, they can go if they want. Said they didn’t feel safe, they were going back to the far land.”

“I’m sorry Ryan, you must miss them.”

“Yeah. I, er, I’m sorry Ms Zeit, but I’ve got to go, I’ll miss my viewing.”

“Me too. I’ve got work to get to. Give my best to the family.”

She left him to it. Going back to her car, she let Max in.

“I’ll drop you off at Melvyn’s” she said, “you be good for him, now.”

He rolled his large blue eyes at her. Of course he would.

It was a fact of some consternation to Argana that she had to have a day job. It was the thing that emphasised the amateur in amateur paranormal investigator. It wasn’t that she hated it, although it could be boring, but it didn’t play to her strengths. Which were, to wit, an insatiable curiosity, a side order of bare-faced cheek when the occasion called for it, and a dog who could smell ghosts. So it was that she was in the stock room of the tannery on Drover’s Lane, a shack that sold a mixture of craftsman’s tools and supplies along with small numbers of ready-made belts and other leather goods. Sometimes she was out front on the till, but only when the owner was away.

She was picking through a box of off-cuts, sorting them by colour for sale in mix bags, half listening to a conversation in the next room about the benefits of veg-tan and half butts. Even half butts didn’t make her snigger anymore, she’d heard the phrase so many times. so it was a pleasant surprise when her phone beeped.

‘ForteanWatch alert’ read the screen.  She was signed up with their service, which used sentiment tracking to identify surges of paranormal activity above background levels. Strictly speaking, that comprised conversations about activity, rather than activity itself, but it was a reasonable proxy. It had to be seasonally adjusted. Christmas always spiked ghost sentiment, and naturally Halloween tended to be off the scale.

“Nostradamus, read it to me,” she said, still elbow deep in the offcuts bin.

“This article is twenty minutes long. Are you sure?” intoned her AI assistant, who she’d obviously renamed, in its inauthentic east-European accent.

“Just read the contents list.”

“Reading content list. 1. Two headed egg reported in Lincolnshire. 2. Black shuck seen on Norfolk Broads, said to be luring lap dogs from riverboats.”

She fished out a snakeskin-print piece of leather in fuchsia pink and looked between her three existing piles - one each of brown, tan and navy - gave up, and started a new pile.

“…believed to be giant’s footprint. 8. High levels of exorcist activity in Liverpool. 9. A tortoise with a naturally occurring silver-”

“Wait! Roll back. What was that thing about Liverpool?”

She paused, mid motion, with a fragment in her hand coloured in boring-life-grey, hovering halfway between the tan and the grey.  She knew an exorcist from Liverpool, a grouchy battleaxe of a man who’d once been her almost mentor.

“I don’t understand, please repeat,” stuttered the computer.

“Read me section 8.”

“Reading section 8. In the city of Liverpool, exorcism references are up 17% over the last 24 hours. Related topics also trending. References to the Paragnostica are up over 180%. Semantic connections indicate a strong association between the Paragnostica and exorcism.”

“Access specific rumours,” Argana said, carefully using the exact words she remembered from the website’s button’s subtitles. She itched to simply pick up the phone and jab away at it, but knew if she started, she’d be knee deep in kitten videos twenty minutes later, having forgotten whatever she’d set out to find. At least this way she wouldn’t get sacked for slacking off. Speaking of which, she remembered the piece of leather in her hand and found a place for it, picking up another one.

“Specific rumours are as follows. 1. Toxteth Town Hall, vicar called in to deal with ghost. 2. Paragnostica agent dispatched…”

“More details on choice 2.”

“Aggregating 13 messages.” There was a pause as the website converted whatever its native format was into natural language.

“The Paragnostica, a secret society within the mother Catholic Church, has dispatched an agent. The agent is Father MacGillycuddy and two men, one of the men is a people. They are searching for a demon angel treasure, and got their orders directly from the Pope who might be Satan. They will learn that together they are stronger and their weaknesses are their advantages.”

Argana giggled despite herself. The ForteanWatch AI never had got the hang of assembling contradictory statements into a manageable paragraph. But MacGillycuddy, looking for something? She’d worked with the old scouser before, often reluctantly, enough to know that he never did anything without a definite purpose. Demon angel treasure, the summary had said. The demon could easily be the one that Akira had summoned, and the treasure the Demoncoyn that Yasmin was currently looking for. Two out of three wasn’t bad, especially given the notoriously vague results of rumour aggregation.

Or, she thought sombrely, she could just be reading patterns into randomness, like Psychic Sybil.

The business owner stuck their head around the corner.

“Hey, are you finished in there?”

“I’m just listening to a podcast while I work.”

“I want those bundles sorted by closing so I can put them online.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Argana waited until she was alone again, still sorting the leather scraps. The tips of her fingers were beginning to smudge with the colours.

Whispering, she instructed her phone. “Nostradamus, volume down to 20%. Dial MacGillycuddy.”

“Dialling MacGillycuddy," whispered the phone.

It rang for a suspiciously short sequence before being met with, “The person you are dialling is not available right now. He may or may not be away.”

Which meant for sure that he was away. If past experience was anything to go by, had he been in, one of his underlings would have forced her to jump through a labyrinth of security questions before being allowed to talk to him. She was in the middle of figuring out who to ring next when her phone upped and died on her. Shaking it did no good, the battery was flat. It had been doing that a lot lately. Still, at least it prompted her to go back to work while it charged.

The three hours until Argana got off work passed extremely slowly. The moment she was out of the building, before she’d even started the walk home, she was on the phone. Once again, she was unable to get through to MacGillycuddy. The terse voice recording didn’t even give her an opportunity to leave a message, ending with an emphatic beep and a disconnection.

Clearly though, someone was listening. Her phone rang almost as soon as she’d hung up. Usually, she was hesitant about answering unknown numbers, but the coincidence was too much to ignore.

“Hello?”

“Is that you, Argana Zeit?” said a voice she thought she ought to recognise. A young man’s voice, slight Italian accent, but it was the staccato delivery that tugged at her memory.

She tucked the phone against her chin, needing two hands to operate the pedestrian gate that let onto the path back to town.

“Who’s asking?”

“Pietro Pellegrino. You were trying to get in contact?”

“Hi! With MacGillycuddy, yes.” She’d met Pietro before, an earnest disciple of the Paragnostica who hadn’t exactly covered himself in glory. She stifled a smirk at the thought that he’d been demoted from sword wielding paladin to phone operator.

“As it happens, he’s coming down your way.”

“I know. I have my sources.” That it was pure guesswork on her part didn’t need mentioning. “What’s he, er, what’s he coming for?”

“You don’t know?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking,” she snapped, bristling at his smugness.

“The demon. Ur-Balor. He’s dealt with it before.”

“Well, he can go home again. Berkshire tasered it into the middle of next week. Or at least the next world.”

Pietro scoffed.

“And you honestly think a little tasering is going to put off an entity like that? One of the star-born, masquerading as a demon king from the Hyperborean age? If it was that easy, Culhwch would have smote his behind out of this world eons ago.”

She shrugged defensively, even though he couldn’t see the gesture.

“Hey! It’s not like it’s the whole of him anymore. Just, some kind of fragment.”

“The Paragnostica has been scrying. He’s still in your world. Our world. MacGillycuddy’s going to take care of it. He knows what he’s doing, which is more than I can say for you.”

“And that’s it, you’ve just rung me up to gloat?”

“Oh no, for a favour. Pick him up from the station. He’s getting into Buxton tomorrow, 10am.”

“What’s in it for me?”

That was met with laughter.

"Oh, come on, a chance to pick the brains of the Paragnostica’s finest exorcist while you’re driving him back? We both know you’d love that!”

Love was a strong word. Conversations with the old exorcist always gave Argana a severe case of imposter syndrome. Plus, she never knew which MacGillycuddy she’d get. Sometimes he was in concerned uncle mode, sometimes exasperated power broker. But for all that the thought of being alone in a car with him made her anxiety jump, she knew that Pietro was right. MacGillycuddy knew things, secret things, and that was a valuable currency.

“Let him know I’ll be there.”

“Will do.”

“Look after yourself, Pietro.”

Ewan know who

Stomping up the hill above the train station at Grindleford, Constable Fred Berkshire was more determined than ever to get a better vehicle, and soon. The sun was out, and the tourists with it. A selection of the junior tourists were at that moment taking their frustrations out on their parents, having discovered the ice cream van parking up alongside them was nothing of the sort. It’s not like he’d been playing the tune - the mechanics had ripped that infernal thing out - but apparently, some people couldn’t take a hint.

He’d even tried to hide the requisitioned ice cream van behind a dilapidated Range Rover at the end of the row. It hadn’t helped.

Still, striding through the long grass with the sun beating on his black-clad shoulders, he felt all the tension fall away from him.

Ten minutes later, and several hundred feet higher up, the path broke out of the tree line onto Lawrence Field. The dolem was still there, a squat triad of rocks casting a dark shadow under the bright sky. It was surrounded by bright plastic tents, cooking stoves and camping chairs. His heart sank. Twenty or more people sat around, clothed in bright stripes and clashing patterns as if they’d ram-raided a head shop. He had hoped to do this alone, unnoticed. There were too many questions he couldn’t answer. One of which was what exactly he intended to do now he was here.

A man stood up from his chair, angling to intercept Fred on the path. He was decked in green and brown, with his braided hair tucked into an outsized cap. He blocked the path.

“Hey bro, this is National Park land man, we got a right to be here.”

Fred spread his hands disarmingly.

“Sir, I’m not here to move you on.”

“Then what are you doing here?” As he spoke, the man glanced nervously over his shoulder.  Two of his friends were urgently moving something out of sight, into their tent. Herbal intoxicants, from the smell of it.

“I’m here to take a look at the stone.”

“Why, haha, has it done something wrong?”

Fred laughed reflexively. A neutral laugh, neither raucous nor sarcastic, the one he reserved for the tedious brand of humour he encountered as part of his job.

He walked past the man, then turned around just as he relaxed.

“One thing, though, Sir.”

“Er, yes?”

He jabbed his finger at the unlit cooking stations.

“I want to see those things used responsibly. Get them up off the ground, we don’t want any wildfires, you hear?”

“Sure thing, Chief.”

Leaving him behind, Fred got closer to the rocks. The tents were all thirty metres or more back from it, apparently out of a sense of reverence. There were fewer revellers close to it. A couple with ukuleles, most just watching it in quiet contemplation. A girl of thirteen or fourteen sat in a camp chair, sketching it. She looked up, showing him a charcoal drawing.

“What do you thi- oh!”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you,” he said. “That’s very good.”

“Thanks. I was going to photograph it, but the phones don’t work this close.”

“No?” He took his own phone out. The screen was black. His radio was lifeless when he tried that too.

He took a few steps toward the dolem, and the dark gap between its front stones. It felt like he should be able to see through, as if it was a chunky giant’s footstool, but the space between the stones drank light. “Has anyone… been in? Been through?”

The girl shook her hair, freeing daisies that were tangled in it.

“Boffa tried it, but he bottled it every time he got under the shadow. We did throw some stones in, though, but didn’t hear anything.”

Fred nodded. Tucking his thumbs through his belt loops, he tilted back to check the markings on the arch. They were still there, carved as if they’d been there a thousand years.

“Mean anything to you?” The girl asked, still sketching.

He gave her a smile, tapping the epaulette of his uniform. Her eyes widened with recognition.

“That’s your employee number!”

“That’s right, Miss.”

She craned over her shoulder, raising her voice.

“Hey everyone, it’s the copper’s number! It’s waiting for him.”

Fred rubbed his fingers against his brow, either side of his nose. He hadn’t meant to do this so publicly. Too late to back out, now. The entire camp was coming to watch him, stopping whatever they were doing. More than he had seen, people coming out of their tents too.

The girl scurried over to him, stopping with her hands on her knees so that she was stooped over and peering up sideways at him.

“What are you going do?”

“Give me a minute.”

He reached out his hand, not quite as far as the void between the stones, felt the tingle of cold against his skin. The lintel had his number on, alright, but beneath it were a set of scratched lines that might be some form of writing.  What they said was anyone’s guess. Anyone’s, but specifically, not his.  And near those, three circles flattened into the rough surface of the stone. Smooth, disc shaped indentations.

“Do it!” yelled someone behind him. It sounded like the man who had confronted him on the path.

“Yeah, do it, cop!” another shout, someone else this time. Then they were all at it.

“Do it cop! Do it cop! Do it cop!”

Squaring his shoulders, he stared into the void. It gave him vertigo, the strong impression that he was looking down rather than through. He tensed his leg to move.

“Stop!”

The hippies fell silent, and there was a restraining hand on his shoulder. In his mind’s eye he grabbed that hand, twisted it, hip tossed its owner into the trilith. Instead, he pushed it gently away, turning as he did so.

He found himself looking into a wild-eyed face. A man in his forties, sturdy looking, his prematurely white hair doing nothing to tame his impression of wild unhingement. Ewan Enoch, the self-proclaimed druid, more often trouble than he was helpful.

“Mr Enoch!” Fred should have known, really. It had to have been the Welshman’s land rover in the car park. No one else would have the single-minded determination to keep such a dilapidated vehicle running.

“Constable Berkshire.” Ewan gave him a smile that was all teeth. “Seriously, you were going to step into that? Didn’t you even read it?”

“Go on. What does it say?”

Ewan scowled.

“You don’t read Ogham?”

“I must have skipped that day at Police College.”

Ewan pointed to the symbols as he interpreted them.

“Enter in the footsteps of one higher than you,” he read.

“What does it mean?”

“Exactly what it says, I imagine.”

The crowd was pressing closer for a better look. Except for a couple of its taller members who were hesitating, eyeing the constable to gauge his height. They surreptitiously stepped back. Everyone wanted to know what was below the dolem. Noone wanted to be the first to find out.

“You’re serious…? A magic stone popped up out of nowhere, with my police number on it… but now it wants me to follow someone taller in?”

“Exactly!” Ewan was up on his tiptoes, moving his flattened hand between their foreheads.

It was clear to anyone else how futile this was. Square shouldered, straight-backed Fred was a good ten centimetres taller than wiry Ewan.

He batted the druid’s hand away. “Stop that, I’m taller than you.”

“Only on account of that stupid hat!”

That was the way with Ewan. He believed whatever his ego told him. Without any preparation he jumped into the black space.

Fred stared open mouthed at the hole. The druid had simply vanished. The crowd let out a collective gasp.

It didn’t last long. Ewan was hurled out again, flying sideways through the air. This close, Fred couldn’t dodge, taking the entire impact. Then he was on his back, metres away, Ewan sprawled across him, groaning.

“Full body slam! Oh yeah, did you see that?”

Fred’s ribs didn’t share the crowd’s enthusiasm. He rolled Ewan off him, who protested feebly.

“See, I am taller,” he said, vindicated.

There was heather in his hair, and he scuffed it out before combing his dark waves back into place with his fingers. The girl who’d been drawing brought his hat over. It had rolled away in the impact. Thanking her, he knocked the ants out of it and put it back on.

“Are any of you medics?” he asked of the crowd.

“Yeah, me. I volunteer with the St John’s.” An elderly man raised a hand. Clad in a dark blue cloak arrayed with moons, he made his way over.

“Ah, don’t bother yourself,” grumbled Ewan, who despite his protestations was still slumped against a hillock, clutching his side.

“The rest of you, stay back. I’m going back down to the car to get some police tape and mark this thing off. It’s obviously dangerous,” said Fred.

There was some muttering, but most of it was principle only. After what had happened, no one actually wanted to try it themselves.

“Um, look at the stone,” said the young artist, intercepting him as he walked away.

He followed the line of her pointing finger. As he watched, one of the three flat circles changed. A metal sigil grew within it, first poking out through the rock, then spreading across it. Stylised, angular, but recognisable. A skull. A skull and two empty spaces.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“Three strikes and you’re out. And that’s strike one.”

“Oh.”

He strode on past her, down toward the car park to get the tape.

“This can’t be good,” he muttered.

The hitchhiker

Not uncommonly for the British summer, it was grey and drizzly the next day. As Argana and Max sped out toward Buxton station, water collected on the windscreen without troubling to be raindrops along the way. That’s how fine the mist was. The high-hedged roads led them out of Trotterwell into the surrounding countryside. Hills and full-leafed trees flashed past.

Just before the turning onto the A6, a dash of colour caught her eye in a layby. The dash of colour extended an arm, thumb raised.

She wouldn’t have stopped if she’d been alone. But with Max on the rear seat, Argana was confident to pick up the hitchhiker. All the same she felt some anxiety until, as she slowed the car, she recognised them. Patty Scholes, the matriarch standing with her feet planted and a spray of plastic bags folded under one arm.

“Hey Mrs Scholes! Hop in,” she said, having properly gronked the suspension in the tractor ruts at the roadside.

Patty did so, further testing the suspension. Her hood, raised against the elements, largely hid her ginger hair. But her blunt face poked out. She folded her heavy arms and gave Argana an honest smile.

“Thanks love. Just call me Patty, though? I’ve been waiting an age there, you wouldn’t believe how many people just sail on past, you know?”

Argana shook her head. She did know, of course. People who knew of Patty feared her formidable feather-ruffling reputation, and people who didn’t thought she looked like she could knead bread dough out of girders.

“I’m heading out to Buxton, to the station,” Argana explained. “If that’s any good for you?”

“Suits me, Ghana. I’m not going so far, just off to forage for mushrooms in the woods above Turner’s Farm.”

“That’s not far at all. I can drop you at Hanging Willow Crossroads, will that do?”

“Ah, that’d be perfect, Ghana love.”

She glanced over her shoulder, checking the blind spot before she pulled back into the lane. She glimpsed Max in the back as she did. He had one eye open, watching their passenger cautiously. Perhaps he was just sensing her displeasure at being misnamed, sensitive hound.

“Ghana? You know that’s not my name, right?” she asked.

“Oh?” Patty’s expression was of surprise and regret. “Our Ryan told me it was. And I told him that’s a funny name, but he said maybe that’s where your parents met, it’s a country in Africa, int it? I’m sorry about that though, duck. Gale, is it?”

“Argana,” said Argana.

“Hmm,” said Patty, nodding to herself.

Argana took a long corner slightly too fast, distracted by the vista that opened as they crested the rise, the patchwork of hills and woods undulating before them.

“It’s a good view, that,” observed Patty, pounding a large hand against her chest. “Gets you right here.”

“Yep,” Argana agreed. She took her eyes off the road again, checking on Max, and was pleased to see that he’d relaxed.

“Argana, that’s a place name, too?” asked Patty, watching the hedges whizz past.

“What? Yes! Not many people spot that, you know. You were right, you know, that is where my parents met.”

Patty nodded to herself, satisfied.

“I got a good nose for people.  There’s two types of people name their sprogs after places they’ve been. That’s the filthy rich, what we used to call the Jet Set, because they’ve conceived children in places worth bragging about. Stupid kids with names like Hampton Wick. Or Xanadu.”

“Xanadu’s not—”

“And then there’s those wild-eyed hippies who go barefoot everywhere, think they’re doing their litter a favour by naming them after their own life changing experiences. Take a bow, Peru. Or Euphrates or Cairo. My Phoebe has a Bangladesh in her class at school. Bangladesh? Can you imagine? They mostly just call him Deshi.”

Argana thought of her mum’s house, of the wall hangings, the incense. The tiles everywhere, the failed attempts to interest herself and her brother in learning Arabic.

“Morocco. My mum goes back every year or so, when she can afford it,” she said.

“Africa,” reflected Patty. “Called it.”

“There’s a billion miles of desert between Ghana and Morocco!” objected Argana, but Patty just chuckled.

Argana did what she always did when she felt like she was losing a conversation. She altered the subject.

“I saw your lad Ryan, y’know, out flat hunting.”

“He’s a good lad. What about him?”

“It’s his middle name. Ryan Arcadia Scholes. You want to explain that one? Did you pop over to the netherworld for a romantic excursion?”

“Oh, that.” The corners of Patty’s mouth turned downward. “Yes, well, I always said we ought to change it.”

“Didn’t you name him? He’s your son!”

“Oh, he’s my son, yes. But he’s adopted. Can’t you see? His hair’s black as a raven’s!” She tugged a ginger forelock to make her point.

“Ginger’s a recessive trait,” said Argana defensively. “And you’ve got… childbearing hips.”

“God’s teeth you don’t mince your words, do you? No, Ryan came with that name. Foolish if you ask me. We raised him to tell the other kids his middle name is Cade. How’d you find out?”

“Saw his ID.”

“You’re a snoop, that’s what you are.”

“Well, this snoop’s giving you a lift.”

“That you are. And don’t think I’m not grateful.” Patty shuffled her collection of bags, looking straight ahead.

They reached Hanging Willow Crossroads. The great tree it was named for was long since gone but its descendants were clustered around the pond in the corner of the field. A public footpath crossed the junction, signposted at either side on wooden posts, green with algae. One arm pointed back to Trotterwell, the other to Skulker’s Rise, the erstwhile home of the fae.

“Thanks love, I owe you one,” said Patty, climbing out of the car after Argana had stopped. She ambled off toward the public footpath, rocking from side to side as she went, clutching her cluster of bags. Argana watched her go, wondering what secrets the woman hid.

The ears have it.

As he stood on the doorstep of Yasmin Nuri’s apartment, Fred Berkshire took off his police cap and tucked it under his arm. Like a stupid black baseball cap with checks around it, it made a sad replacement for the solid cone he preferred to wear. But Requisitions had yet to replace that one since his narrow miss in the chopper accident.

“Oh!” Yasmin gasped, opening the door to him. “I was expecting… well, I wasn’t expecting anyone. What’s - has something…”

“Yasmin Nuri? Can I come in? We have something the Force would like you to look into, and we understand you usually work with Ms Zeit.”

“I…”

Being only chest height to him, she hadn’t taken in anything more than his uniform and his broad shoulders. Only now did her eyes wander up as far as his face, widening in sudden recognition. Like Argana, she’d been two years below him at Trotterwell Primary School, although in her case they’d rarely seen one another since.

“It’s… it is you, isn’t it? Freddy. Argana talks about… You said you want to come in?”

“Uh, if I may, Ms Nuri.”

“Um. Two ticks.”

She slammed the door abruptly in his face, almost catching the paws of a rotund white cat that had been staring balefully at him from by her feet. He idly watched the sky as he waited, although he was listening for clues as to what was happening inside. Sounds came to him of equipment being swept off surfaces, of cupboard doors being slammed. Nuri, if Fred was any judge, was not the kind of woman to be flushing weed down the toilet. Whatever infractions or embarrassments she was covering up, he doubted he’d understand anyway.

“Hi.” She reopened the door, looking slightly flustered. Her glossy dark hair was distinctly more dishevelled than it had been when she first greeted him. “You can come in now.”

“Thank you.” He stepped in past her.

“Go through to the kitchen. Go straight through. Don’t look at… well, don’t.”

The interior was like you took a show room and emptied several skips into it. Not any old skips, mind, but specifically skips from round the back of big-Computers-Are-Us-Ltd. Cables, screens, keyboards, anonymous black boxes all fought for space alongside used plates and discarded socks. He stepped around it all while the cat zipped agilely through it along well practiced routes. If Nuri had been hastily tidying before he came in, she’d failed, and if she was hiding things he wasn’t meant to see, then she hadn’t needed to. He understood less than a tenth of what he could see.

To his relief, the kitchen area was almost clear of detritus. She followed him in.

“Argana said you found more of the faceless people,” she said, before adding, “you want a tea? Coppers drink tea, right?”

The kettle sat wonkily at the edge of the sink, its grubby exterior at once giving him pause for thought and daring him to try it.

“Um, yes.” He could trade a little immune system security for the sake of civility.

“Here’s the thing. We’ve got 7 kids now, including the boy who started this all off. And we don’t know who any of them are.”

“I thought he was called Elmo.”

“We named him after his t-shirt. We don’t know. There’s no fingerprint or DNA matches.”

“Dental?”

“They don’t have faces, remember.”

“Oh, yes,” she giggled nervously, blushing. “You must think I’m a right duffer.”

“Far from it. I’m here because we need your ingenuity. How would you go about identifying them?”

She passed him a cup of tea in a cracked mug bearing the logo of a Koala with an assault rifle.

“What have you tried so far?”

“There’s no clothes labels or wallets. No jewellery, watches or phones. We think they’re too young for tattoos, and certainly none of them have any. I thought maybe they might have had surgery or something in the past that we could link, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary. One’s had an appendectomy and two of them have healed fractures of their collar bones, which is far too common for hospital records to be any use. No implants, no titanium screws. Honestly, we’re drawing a blank. But it was your hacking that found them in the first place, so I figured I’d ask you.”

“Not hacking,” she said hastily, “just advanced data retrieval via third parties.”

“Uh, sure. Any ideas, though.”

Nuri chewed the end of her pen for a while. Fred sipped at the tea while he waited, regretting it instantly. It tasted stale, as if the kettle was never used. Which the stack of energy drink cans overflowing the recycling would seem to confirm.

“Eesh,” she said, unintelligibly.

“You…” He gesticulated, pinching his fingers near his face, indicating that she still had the pen in her mouth.

“Oh.” She put it down. “Ears. I’m told their faces are shielded, but have you got access to their ears? Opinions vary as to whether ears count as part of the face.”

“Yeah, they do have those.”

“I have some ear recognition algorithms that I’ve always wanted an excuse to run. Or at least, know people who do.”

“But what data would you run it against?

“You state surveillance types have loads, I bet. I mean, not you personally, but some of the pi- some of the police, in general.”

“Unless they were at protests, probably not. And even then, that stuff is mired in red tape.”

“You’re not the only state doing surveillance.”

“I’m not the state. I work for the state,” objected Fred. “And anyway, other states' CCTV isn’t going to help us unless the victims are foreign.”

“Are they?”

“We’ve no way to tell. In terms of skin tone, we’ve got one coffee, four pink and two chestnut. We’re working on the assumption that they’re British only because most people in Britain are. Where we can identify the brands of their clothing, they’re from chains available in this country.”

“Luckily for you, a number of foreign powers have obtained significant footage of our citizens.”

“That may be true, but I can’t access their records, can I?”

“You can’t,” she scoffed. “I can. Isn’t that what you’re paying me for?”

“How?”

“The Moldovans, obviously. Y’know, it’s probably better if you don’t know.”

“As you say. Once the doctors have finished checking them out, we’re going to move them to the safehouse Ms Zeit established,” he said, sure that he’d never before, nor would again, describe a potting shed as a safehouse. “You can go and take measurements or whatever you need there.”

“Oh no,” she said, apparently offended. “I’m not leaving the house for that. Can’t you send them to me?”

“We can do that. How soon can we expect results?”

“I’ll need some bitcoins on expenses. Most of the exchanges are in a bit of a tizzy right now, so if I time a purchase right, I’ll save the taxpayer some money. And it’s quicker than mining. Another day to track down the resources, and then as many hours as The Scooby Gang need.”

Seeing the blank in his expression, she filled it in for him. “That’s what I call my computer farm. It’s not that weird. Cider Pete calls his ‘The Brady Bunch’, and he’s not even grade one bonkers.”

“So, a few days then?”

“A few days. I want my contract rate.”

“How much?”

“What I’d make at Google.”

“We’re a publicly funded organisation.”

“Fine. 20 quid an hour.”

“All right, we can do that. Contact me or Ms Zeit when you have results, ok? I’ll have Moira down at the station draw you up an actual contract.”

“If you like. Your word’s good enough for me, though.”

He looked at her quizzically. East Street Station had a better relationship with the locals than many forces, one of the perks of working a small town. But even so, the uniform had its effect on people. Either it made them distrust him, or it made them want to do everything by the book. And prefer that the book itself was hardback and triple signed by the librarian.

“That’s… refreshing.”

“Just look at you,” she said, wearing the expression of someone who’s just discovered that their new puppy won’t in fact eat the cake off the table when left alone. “You’re clearly lawful-good.”

“Thanks, ma’am,” he replied, hazarding a smile. He had no idea what she was on about. He left the rest of the tea behind, undrunk.

Upon reaching Hawthorn Lane, where Judith was keeping the faceless children in her barn, Fred dismounted his police bicycle and locked it to a gate post. In the couple of hours since he’d left Yasmin’s, he’d been back to the station, done his share of the interminable paperwork, and called in a few favours with the Force’s tech department. He’d also ditched the ice cream van, unable to take being flagged down by any more disappointed children. Taking off his regulation hi-vis and bicycle helmet, he made his way down to the door of the cottage and knocked on it.

There was an answering yell, but not from the cottage. It came from the largest of a row of sheds that occupied the side garden.

“We’re in here, Officer!”

Spotting Judith waving from the open door, he walked over, following a path made of mismatched slabs. Leftovers, he imagined, from her many landscaping jobs.

“Hello, Miss Keppler, I’m—”.

“Oh, don’t be like that, I know you,” she interrupted him, beckoning him inside. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this. The fire on the council estate. All that nonsense with the moles, you remember that?”

“As if I could forget.”

He followed her through the green door of the barn, momentarily blinded by the transition from the summer sky to the darkened interior. Dimly he saw a long work bench, and a large figure hunched over it, working on something.

“You know Tony?” said Judith.

“I won’t shake hands, if it's all the same to you,” said Tony, raising his dirty palms in demonstration. A middle-aged man with a round, kind face, he wore more layers of checked shirt than the summer heat merited.

Fred had expected them to be in the same barn in which the faceless children were kept, but he couldn’t see them. This barn, with cast-cement walls mimicking blockwork and a corrugated iron roof crudely insulated with batons of sheep’s wool, was obviously Judith’s main workshop. A rubber tarpaulin partitioned the far end off, hanging from a curtain rail. The walls were lined with saws, tower drills, tubs of fixings, uneven lengths of wood stacked in the corner like an impromptu bonfire. And, in centre place, the massive bench running three quarters of its length, at which Tony sat. In front of him was the source of his mucky hands, an open bag of clay, and a half dozen misshapen clay objects.

To his side was a boy, about twelve, with the same dish-shaped ears as Tony. And as it happened, equally mucky hands. These he waved frantically at Fred, grinning. “I’ll shake hands with you!”

“I’ll decline, if it’s all the same, young man.”

Tony put an arm over the boy’s shoulder, carefully leaving his clay-encrusted hand hanging in the air.

“This is my nephew, Anthony.”

“Hi. I’ll say this, you’re lucky to be here. This is a top-secret location,” said Fred, forcing some joviality into his voice.

The kid beamed, but Tony understood that he was being serious.

“We’re making faces for the children. They don’t look like much, but it’s an iterative process, feeling our way through the shapes…”

“He knows!” exclaimed Fred, looking accusingly at Judith.

She wasn’t one for backing down.

“I think he can help. Anthony’s top of his class in art, too.”

“Ok, you know this entire operation is meant to be secret? You tell Tony, who’s he going to tell?”

“No one,” said Tony, not looking up from his work.

“See.” Judith folded her arms.

“Other than Paul,” added Tony.

“This is just…” Fred struck his forehead with the palm of his hand, letting his gesture finish his sentence for him.

“It’s not like they’re mafia, and some bunch of clowns is going to come get them. You haven’t told me who I’m keeping them safe from, but I’m willing to bet the kind of people who can put - and I’m pausing here to get this right - children without faces inside of giant unknown plants, I’m guessing that kind of person isn’t going to be just hanging around The Green Dragon, waiting to eavesdrop something.”

Fred sat down heavily on the bench seat that ran alongside the table. Given that Tony was weighing down the other end, it didn’t budge.

“The safe house is compromised,” he said, glumly.

“If it bothers you so much, have your house witch come over and cover it in wards, or something.”

“She’s not a… look, I didn’t come here to argue. I’m here to check on your charges.”

Judith grinned, more in triumph than warmth. “They’re still here, and safe. I’ll take you to them.”

“Thanks. First though, Tony, you said faces?”

“Yeah mate. Have a look.”

The sculptor shuffled up a little way and Fred slid up the bench next to him. On the table were seven partially finished clay faces, each formed of a thin layer over a theatre mask. They had a crude, cartoony look, all except for the one right in front of Tony.

“I’m just carving her lips in,” he explained, “but it’s when I get to the eyes that they’ll start to look right.”

“What are you going to do with them?”

“We haven’t figured that out yet,” said Judith from behind them.

“Maybe just leave them in front of them."

Perhaps place them on their heads, see if they merge, or something. I’m not stupid, that swirly void where their faces should be is magical. If it’s magic, the normal rules don’t apply.”

“Giving human being clay faces is definitely not normal rules, I’ll grant you that.”

“I’m sure there’s something in the bible about Jesus flobbing on clay and bringing it to life.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Neither Fred nor his parents were believers, and his grandparents had been Hindus. What he knew of the Bible he’d gleaned from school assemblies, and it didn’t stretch as far as the nature of messianic expectorant.

“You’re thinking of clay sparrows,” said Tony, “but that’s not in your regular, standard edition Bible. It’s Qur’anic.”

“Same difference.” Judith shrugged.

“And the Infancy Gospel of Thomas,” he added.

Anthony, improving the cheekbones of his mannequin by pressing his thumbs in under them, rolled his eyes. “Y’all better not be about to yapping on about how Santa’s not real in front of me.”

“You’re a regular theological society in here,” said Fred.

“They is, I’m not,” laughed Judith. “I’m more of a ‘if it grows it’s alive and I don’t need to believe in anything more’ kind of a girl. So, now that you’ve finished interrogating my guests and insulting my ability to figure out who to trust, perhaps you’d like to tell me why you’re here?”

“Didn’t I mention that? I’m here to measure the kids’ ears.”

“You can’t,” said Anthony, clamping his hands on either side of his head. A gesture that left smears of clay in his hair. “I’ve got rights, you know. We’re doing citizenship at school. I’ll write a letter of complaint to the Chief Officer, and I’ll make them count it as homework credit.”

“Save it, Pankhurst. He meant kids. Plural,” said Judith. And then to Fred, “…not that I doubt you, but what’s this for?”

“Measuring their ears? We’ve got a specialist thinks she might be able to identify them.”

Judith nodded, going to the rubber tarpaulin at the back of the barn. She got hold of its corner. “Come on officer, I’ll show you the secret.”

The boy was off his bench and behind Fred in an instant, crowding in for a look. Judith hesitated, hand still on the edge of the tarpaulin.

Fred held his palm out, the gesture stopping the boy in his tracks. “You shouldn’t be seeing this stuff. It’ll disturb you.”

“I’m twelve,” said Anthony, planting his hands on his hips. “I spend seven hours a weekend playing Sniper Assassin World Tour, just ask my parents. They’re always trying to get me off it. I can handle a bunch of faceless children.”

“Come and sit down,” said Tony, patting the bench beside him. “That head’s not going to finish itself.”

Fred watched him go back to his craftwork.

“Ready?” asked Judith. Without waiting for an answer, she pulled the curtain enough for the two of them to step through.

The blast of humidity it had been holding back was instant, leaving condensation on Fred’s police badge. The faceless children were there, coiled in their oversize cabbages. UV lights glared down from the ceiling, while humidifier pipes ran along the walls, emitting a fine spray.

Judith had placed the cocoons into raised beds of dark, warm-scented compost.

“If you’re thinking it’s a lot of effort to shift that much peat,” she said, following his eyes, “you’re not wrong.”

“I’m impressed. This is quite the set up.”

“Thanks. It’s nothing, I’m good with plants.”

“Here, can you take notes while I measure?” He produced his notebook from his pocket, passing it to her along with a pencil.

The first child was, by their height and shape, a teenage girl. Since he’d first seen Elmo when he’d been brought to the hospital, he’d been trying to get their non-faces out his mind. When these six new children had been discovered at Grindleford, he’d been there, but he’d made every effort not to look directly at them.

It was unavoidable now, this close to her. Her faceless visage was a swirl, a smudgy nothing in his vision, like something seen out of the corner of his eye. A whirl in space. The blinking after image of staring too long into the sun.

Working with Argana Zeit he’d seen plenty of strange things, many of them dangerous, and just as many far too ready to trample everything he knew about the world underfoot. But this was different, more disturbing than anything he’d ever encountered. He hesitated, unwilling to risk brushing his hand against that nothingness.

“Man up, Freddie,” Judith said brusquely behind him, although with an undercurrent of mirth. “You’ve got to ‘face’ your fears.”

“Hmmp.” He pulled on a pair of black leather gloves.

“Oh, come on, that was good!”

Taking a deep breath, he pushed the girl’s hair out of the way of her ear. As he took readings with the tape measure, his hand brushed against her missing face. Although he flinched, her skin was warm and soft, nothing like the insanity that he had expected.

“Not so bad, huh?” observed Judith.

“Seven centimetres lobe to helix, three perpendicular, starting at the tragus.”

A she scribbled that down, he held up a laminated sheet for comparison. It was a photo-fit aid he’d brought up from the station, a five-by-five grid of ears in grainy black-and-white.

He studied it for a moment, looking back and forward between it and the girl. “Number seven ear,” he said.

“Right you are.”

Moving the girl’s hair back to its original place, he went on to the next child.

The rubber tarpulin twitched.

“Super cool!” said Anthony, his eyes wide, and his expression gleeful.

Twenty minutes later, they were outside. Fred took a deep breath. The fresh air and bright sunlight were a welcome change after the hothouse. His readings taken, they’d left the shed so they could talk without Anthony’s excited interruptions.

“You know the Scholes case, it’s possible the arsonist is still around.”

“You can call it a monster if you like, Freddie. The rumour is all over Trotterwell, that it was a werewolf. My niece is telling all her friends that it’s a Jabberwocky, but that’s mostly because she’s at that age where she thinks reading is clever."

“Can you keep a secret?”

“What!?” She pointed at the barn up the hill from them. “I’ve got the Cabbage Patch Kids up there, and I haven’t so much as taken a selfie with them. Do you have any idea how hard it is to resist ringing in on Gardener’s Question Time? Don’t ask me if I can keep a secret. You know I can.”

“Yeah, sorry. It was a demon. We think it’s called Balor.”

“I thought you chased it down?”

“Me too. I thought it was well and truly gone back where it came from. But now Argana thinks it’s might still be around.”

“It’s got something to do with the children, hasn’t it? You didn’t just come to measure wingnuts, you wanted to warn me.”

He nodded sombrely.

“Yes. It’s possible there’s a connection. Just, keep your eyes peeled, ok?”

She watched him put on his cycle clips and helmet, then unlock the bicycle.

“If something does happen, a big strong bobby from East Street will be over straight away, right?”

“You’re kidding me, aren’t you? You’ve got to be the most dangerous woman in Trotterwell.”

“Just teasing, Freddie.”

He cycled away, giving her a wave. But he had reservations. Judith might be a black belt, but he wasn’t sure how far that would get her if Balor turned up.

Love from Liverpool

Argana Zeit sat in her car in the park at Buxton station. It wasn’t terribly busy; she and Max had found a spot in the shade of a tree and now, with both doors open for the breeze, they were comfortable. But comfortable was one thing, and happy was something altogether different.

“He wasn’t on the train!” she complained. “After we drove all that way, you’d think Pietro would at least have told us he missed his connection!”

It wasn’t even like MacGillycuddy could have forgotten to get off. Buxton station, built in beige stone by the Victorians, was the end of the line. All trains terminated here.

Max flicked an ear, watching her, registering her distress. He put a paw on her knee, making her smile despite herself.

“We’ll just ring Pietro and get this straightened out.”

After a couple of rings Pietro answered.

“What are you ringing for? Aren’t you in a meeting with Father MacGillycuddy right now?” he asked without any preamble.

“No. I’m at Buxton station. He wasn’t on the train!”

“Of course he wasn’t. He took the limo.”

“And you didn’t think maybe you should have let me know?!”

“Didn’t we?”

“No!”

“Well, you’d better hot foot it back to Trotterwell then, you’ll be late for your meeting.”

“I know!”

“Thanks for calling. Goodbye.”

Argana stared dumbfounded at the phone.

“What, would it blinking kill him to apologise?”

She shut the doors, started the car, and hauled out fast enough that the little car skidded a little. Which felt dramatic but was mostly attributable to the gravel carpark.

Argana was out of breath when she reached the East Street Station, having had to leave her car at the end of the road. Her dramatic entrance to the storeroom consisted of leaning against the doorframe, fighting for breath. It wasn’t her classiest. It was also completely wasted. The stock room was empty of people, even if it was full of everything else.

“Hey!” Moira called through from the front desk. “They’re in the holding pen.”

“Oh.”

Doubling back through the building, she found the two prison cells. They were only rarely used. Occasionally for arrests, sometimes for drunks to sleep it off. Most often as somewhere for Sergeant Peel to put his labrador every other week when his wife couldn’t look after it. It made an odd kind of sense as a place for a meeting, lacking the clutter of the storeroom.

The steel door was open, but Argana rapped on it anyway, just to hear it go clang. Those inside flinched at the sound. Father MacGillycuddy, Constable Berkshire, and Inspector Cianciolo.

“Hi!” she said.

They’d brought chairs into the narrow space, including an empty one for her. She took it.

MacGillycuddy hadn’t changed at all since she’d last seen him. Same wire-brush hair, granite face, and searchlight eyes beneath serpentine eyebrows. The old exorcist regarded her steadily, neither warmth nor malice in his expression.

“You’re late,” he said.

“I was waiting at the station to pick you up!” she squawked, immediately annoyed at how defensive she sounded.

“One of my people should have contacted you. Never mind, you’re here now. You can fill me in on the rest of the details.”

Cianciolo caught her eye before she could speak.

“Constable Berkshire has already explained the Scholes house, and the demon that was there. This Balor.”

MacGillycuddy’s face froze for a second at the mention of 'Balor', as he hid his true response. He turned back to Berkshire, asking,

“Was there any more, before this lass interrupted?”

Berkshire shook his head.

“Just the clothes, really. Judy - that’s one of our firefighters, Judith Keppler - she was on the scene, after they put the fires out. They found a basement room, with boxes and boxes of clothes. Enough for scores, maybe hundreds of people. She sent photos.”

“Could be something.” MacGillycuddy formed an invisible set of weighing scales with hands, balancing them. “Could just as easily be a side business. Auctions, that sort of thing.”

“Judy said she couldn’t be sure because of the fire, but it looked like some effort had been made to disguise the cellar entrance. There were the remains of a backless cupboard in front of it.”

“That’s weird. But it could still be that it’s just an illicit business.”

“That would make sense,” interjected Cianciolo. “The council houses in Summer Meadows all have covenants on them preventing running a business from the premises. When I was a constable, we had to bust someone for rendering tallow into candles a year or two back.”

“Ok, so, there’s clothes,” said MacGillycuddy. “And where are the Scholes now?”

Argana scraped her chair out, sitting down into it.

“I met Ryan,” she told them. “He says they’re in a B&B.”

Berkshire nodded.

“Councillor Hardcastle made sure they had somewhere to live after their place burnt down. She may be a sanctimonious bat…”

“Political neutrality please, Officer,” stressed Cianciolo, her voice warning. He smirked.

“She may be a morally pseudo-superior chiropteran…”

“Better.”

“…But she puts her back into looking after her constituents.”

“Unless they’re Akira Pixels!” interrupted Argana.

“We have no actual proof she’s involved in the Brink Hall harassment,” Cianciolo said evenly.

MacGillycuddy cleared his throat, interrupting them all. A cement mixer would have made less noise.

“Time is very much pressing, here. I’m going to ask you to refrain from descending into bickering, like. Tell me about the Court of the Emerald Shard.”

When all three of them looked at him blankly, he sighed and clarified. “The fae. What have they done?”

“We didn’t mention the—” started Cianciolo, but Argana cut across her.

“They took this boy’s face. He was hidden, in a plant. And then we found five more of them.”

“They’re being looked after by our horticultural expert,” added Berkshire.

The old man nodded, to all appearances unsurprised. An itch started at the back of Argana’s mind, crawling its way forward. There was something she didn’t know, some piece of history that bound MacGillycuddy to demon and fae alike.

Cianciolo looked between them.

“What would the fae want with a face?”

MacGillycuddy rocked back on his chair, steepling his fingers.

“Are youse ready to hear this?” he asked, gravely.

He waited a fraction too long for a response, and Argana seized the pause to offer her own explanation.

“It’s changelings, isn’t it?”

“It’s the changelings,” he confirmed. “Over the centuries, we’ve always wondered what happened to the people taken away. There were rumours that they lived a while in Arcadia, returning to us only when their doubles were revealed or tired of this Earthly life. But that never made any sense because no one ever came back with those memories. So perhaps this is it. They lie in suspended animation, until the day comes that they must be swapped back.”

“They must need the faces to project onto the doppelgangers,” Argana said, speculating.

“I’ve done a lot of training on identity theft,” said Peel loudly from the doorway. “They’ve never covered anything like this.”

“When did you get here?” she asked him irritably.

He shrugged amicably.

“I work here.”

“Have you identified any of them?” MacGillycuddy asked.

Cianciolo shifted, straightening in her chair.

“No. And if we did, what could we do? While abducting a child is clearly a police matter, being a changeling isn’t.”

“They might not even know,” added Argana, thinking of the time she’d uncovered one. The haunted look in their eyes in their final conversation was never going to leave her.

“You won’t be able to wake them up without the changelings returning,” said MacGillycuddy, “not unless you can gain the cooperation of the Fae Court. Which is, frankly, as likely as waking up on the moon tomorrow.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Argana said, a little shortly. She was tiring of being told what they could and couldn’t do. “Anyway, aren’t you meant to an exorcist, not a mythologist? Did you come here for the demon?”

“I did. I am.”

She laughed.

“You’re a little late. Berk tasered him to pieces.”

MacGillycuddy gave her a hard, exasperated look.

“He’ll re-form. Somewhere close to where he vanished. No offence, Constable Berkshire, but there’s not a chance in Hell that you shivved him. I think he chose to phase out because he was bored by you.”

“I didn’t see you running him down in the fields!” Berkshire bristled.

“Hey, if Balor’s some demon king like you say he is,” demanded Argana, “how are you going to take him out?”

MacGillycuddy chuckled. “Wrong on three counts. First, it isn’t Balor, it’s Balor-El. El being a Cymry suffix meaning ‘a fragment of’. The true Balor was banished with his Fomorian cohort, in the wars with the Tuatha. This is a fragment, a memory that was left behind. A seed that curdled with time.”

As Argana opened her mouth, he held up a finger to silence her. “Second. Balor’s not really a demon.”

She couldn’t be contained any longer, waving both arms at him, fingers curled.

“Don’t tell me, he’s really a pan dimensional cosmic horror that our tiny brains only perceive as a demon because the concept of Hell, as bad as it is, isn’t as horrifying as the truth! Maybe, I dunno, we should just upgrade our idea of what a demon is.”

MacGillycuddy raised an eyebrow at her. The eyebrow said, ‘are you done?’.

“Thirdly. I’m not here to banish Balor-El. I’m here to remind it of the terms of our deal.”

“Your what!?” yelled Argana, her voice echoing off the flat grey walls. Even Cianciolo looked perturbed at this new fact.

But it was, uncharacteristically, Berkshire who was angriest.

“You have a deal with him? He nearly killed me! He burned down the Scholes’ house. It’s a miracle we’re not knee deep in bodies.”

MacGillycuddy made smoothing gestures with his hands.

“It’s not allowed to kill humans.”

“Really?” snarled the constable, “Did you tell him that?”

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

Cianciolo interrupted.

“It might help, Father, if you told us what this deal is?”

His mouth became a thin line, his eyes were narrowed.

“That’s my secret to keep.”

Berkshire stood up, sending his plastic chair skidding away. He loomed, clenching and unclenching his fists. Argana had rarely seen him so worked up. Usually, he could be relied on to be the calm one.

Cianciolo put a hand on his elbow, speaking gently.

“Sit down, Constable.”

“There’s a separation of powers here,” said MacGillycuddy. “I work for the church, you for the state. I wouldn’t ask you for details of your confidential operations. Don’t you go asking for mine.”

Blowing out his cheeks, Berkshire turned around.  Peel, leaning in from the doorway, flipped the stricken chair upright. Passed it back to him.

Argana gave her friend a look, not unsympathetic, then turned to the exorcist.

“You may just want to negotiate. But I want to banish that thing. I’ve been thinking about it, and I know where to start. I just need to find a particular book.”

“Seconded,” said Berkshire. “And you’re meant to be an exorcist, MacGillycuddy. Isn’t that your job?”

MacGillycuddy sighed.

“No matter what you may have seen on TV, most of the art of exorcism is the art of negotiation. And you,” he jabbed a bent finger at Argana, “don’t get out of your depth. I don’t want to have to rescue you from your own mistakes again. You stick to the faceless children, I’ll deal with the demon.”

Argana nodded meekly. Which, to those who knew her well, was the surest sign that she didn’t agree.

“Oh yeah, the children. Has Balor-El got anything to do with them?”

MacGillycuddy tilted his head.

“It has no love for the fae. But why it’s back now…”

“Can we concentrate on the children for the moment, Ms Zeit?” said Cianciolo, in gentle tones.

“Yeah. So, I think they’re something to do with the Scholes…”

“Who are the Scholes?” asked MacGillycuddy. It was a question that only someone from out-of-town could ask.

“Ah, troublemakers,” said Peel.

“Stop hovering,” Cianciolo told him. “It’s creepy. Go get yourself a chair from the break room.”

While he left, Berkshire summarised for the priest.

“Patty Scholes is a hard-working foster mother. It was their house that the demon burned down.”

“What have they got to do with the-” started Cianciolo.

“If you’d all shut up for a moment,” said Argana, “I’d be able to tell you! Mama Scholes was dropping some - I think - strong hints. It seems likely children she fosters are changelings. Ones who, for whatever reason, couldn’t stay where they were. I ran into her lad Ryan. His middle name’s Arcadia. Did you know that? And Patty was talking about people named after where they’re born…”

“Arcadia? What’s that” asked Berkshire. He hadn’t exactly calmed down, but he’d sat down again and was making an effort.

“Where’s that,” said MacGillycuddy. “It’s another realm. It’s where the fae go when they’re not here. Things are different there.”

“What he said,” agreed Argana. “Balor-El must have known of the connection. That’s why he burned the house down.”

Cianciolo, who had been listening with her pointy chin pinched between her fingers, straightened up.

“Ok. Ms Zeit, I want you to come up with some questions for Mrs Scholes and see if she knows anything else. Father MacGillycuddy, are the children safe from the demon?”

The priest shifted uncomfortably.

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Do we need to warn Miss Keppler?” asked Peel, returning with a folding chair under one arm.

“I’ve already told her to be on her toes,” said Berkshire. “I can swing by and check on her later, though.”

Cianciolo nodded. Her lips quirked, betraying a repressed smile.

Argana coughed for their attention.

“So I don’t know if it’s connected, but there was this man following me on the train to Grindleford the other day. After I left the hospital.”

“You didn’t mention that,” observed Berkshire.

“I don’t know - I wasn’t sure you’d believe me. He vanished in the tunnel. Like, almost as if he got off the train, somehow.”

“In the tunnel?” asked Peel, leaning across Berkshire in the limited space the cell afforded.

“See, I knew you wouldn’t-” she started defensively.

“This is the Grindleford tunnel?” Peel shivered with excitement.

“Yes…?” she answered uncertainly.

“Is there something you know, Sergeant?” Cianciolo asked.

Peel wasn’t comfortable being the centre of attention, making him talk slightly too fast.

“Ok, So I’m a keen railway buff. Me and my lad have this spreadsheet where we look at timetable deviations. The trains have these headcodes that signalling systems use to identify them, right, so you can work out where they were and how long it takes them to get between points. Now, I’m sure you know, that after the passenger trains stop there’s still freight trains, and sometimes empty trains going backward and forward on the lines in the small hours?”

“I knew that,” confirmed Argana. Although strictly this was only true of the last three seconds.

“Well, there’s a train carries mail from the sorting office in Manchester to Sheffield at 2.15am. For years and years, it’s taken three minutes twelve seconds to traverse the tunnel, with a standard deviation of eight seconds.”

“That’s… very exact,” said Cianciolo.

“Thanks.” He beamed. “Well, once a week for the last month, it’s taken between twelve and eighteen minutes.”

Argana found herself warming to his topic. “Oh! And you think there’s an extra stop in the tunnel?”

“That would be a crazy thing to think,” he said.

“Then I’ll think it for you,” she said, grinning.

“I can’t see that it’s high priority, but it’s something we could look into,” said Cianciolo. “Ok team, anything else we need to discuss now?”

“Yes,” said MacGillycuddy. “Balor-El won’t have freed itself. It had help. We need to figure out who.”

“Oh, we know that bit,” said Argana smugly. “That’s Akira Pixels. The... Neodemonologist, I think he’s calling himself. Essentially, he’s a crypto baron turned influencer.”

MacGillycuddy smoothed his short beard.

“I’ve read about those. Go on.”

“He has this thing he calls Demoncoyn. It’s a cryptocurrency, but it runs an automated demon summoner as part of its mining program.”

The priest nodded pragmatically.

“It’s got the local busy-goodies riled,” Berkshire pointed out. “A group of them vandalised Brink Hall and they’ve been organising-”

“That’s where Mr Pixels lives?”

Berkshire nodded.

“Yes. We’ve had three call-outs already.”

MacGillycuddy scowled.

“Demon summoning is an anti-social business. If it kills anyone, that’s on him.”

“Hey! He didn’t mean it,” said Argana. “It’s all a game to him.”

“Just a game? No such thing. And he brought Balor-El into this world with his crypto-doodah?”

“That’s about it,” she said.

“Then the arrival of the discovery of the faceless children is unlikely to be a coincidence.” MacGillycuddy stood up, brushing down his black smock. “I think I need to speak to this Akira Pixels.”

“I’ll take you out there, Father,” said Berkshire, his voice matter-of-fact.

“Thank you, Constable.”

“I’ll come too,” said Argana. “Me and Max. That’s if you’re allowed to transport us now?”

The police inspector rolled her eyes.

“No, he still can’t. Take your own car. Anyway, it’ll be easier if your investigations take you and Fred in different directions after you’ve been to see Akira. Oh, and Fred? Being as you’re transporting a VIP, take the interceptor. Leave the ice cream van.”

For the first time that meeting, Berkshire smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

The number of the beast

Argana and Max followed Berkshire and MacGillycuddy out of town. They travelled in her trusty - or just rusty - Nissan Micra, tailing the police interceptor. She had some regrets having allowed the constable to go first, given his tendency to travel at the speed limit. But none of the high, hedged, blind curves offered an opportunity to overtake.

When they reached the hall there was a skeleton crew of protesters hanging around the bottom of the drive. A little less than a dozen of them, mostly sunning themselves on the verge. As the cars approached, they stood up, picking up their placards… and then got politely out of the way upon recognising the police markings. MacGillycuddy gave them a demure wave, as if he was visiting royalty. Argana stuck her tongue out. In her rear-view mirror, she thought she saw one of them get his phone out.

“Ah, they’re getting reinforcements,” she told Max. “Probably want to put on a show while the fuzz is here.”

Because her standards were so low, Argana never thought of parking as a difficult thing. If you stopped the car, you were parked. If it wasn’t later clipped by someone you’d blocked in, then that was a bonus. But even she found the chaos at the Hall end of the drive inconvenient. Men and women - but mostly men - in dark navy or charcoal suits and snappy haircuts poured out of the Hall. They started their unnecessarily gigantic cars, attempting to all leave at once. This involved a great deal of getting in each other’s way, and coincidentally in Argana’s.

She gave up trying to get past them and simply turned left off the drive, stopping the car in a handy Gunerra. It was probably due for a prune anyway. Max hopped out behind her and they made their way to the Hall, walking beside the drive.

Naturally, Berkshire and MacGillycuddy had gone in ahead of them, the professionals having made way for the police car. The double doors were opened on one side, Toaster, Akira’s most trusted flunky-slash-cameraman, leant against it, waiting for her. He beckoned her up the steps.

“Hey, Argana, he’s waiting for you inside. In the main hall.”

Much as it was nice to be greeted, the very fact that she was meant that something serious was happening.

“Who were all those wazzocks?”

“Them.” Toaster pursed his lips. “Currency traders. Market makers.”

“Vultures?” suggested Argana. “Why are they leaving?”

“You’d better come inside and find out.”

But just coming inside and finding out was not as easy as she would have liked. A life size cardboard cutout woman blocked their path. It was gaffa-taped to a large man, who tottered oddly for someone of such solidity.

“Hold on, Toaster lad,” he said gruffly. “I’ve got to check everyone, even if you know them.”

In his forties, with a boxer’s nose, heavy jaw and stubble almost up to his eyes, it took her a moment to recognise him. Bruce, a security man and bouncer, occasionally employed by The Green Dragon. He’d thrown her out one New Year’s Eve for underage drinking. The fact he was wearing the black combats and tactical gilet of his profession was not surprising. It was the accessories that were. An itchy looking, raven black wig, which had made him hard to recognise. High-heeled boots that came up to his knees. And that cardboard cut-out, an enlarged image of a woman wearing a dungaree-dress. It had been cut into sections and taped onto him, sitting at odds with his bulky arms and beer belly.

The heels gave him all the grace of a rhino on stilts. She’d never seen anyone look so awkward.

“Um, Bruce,” she said, unable to completely stifle her laugh. “Planning a pantomime?”

“No!” he said emphatically. His ears, peeking out from under the synthetic hair, reddened noticeably. “Akira pays me double to wear this… uniform,” he muttered.

“Oh.”

Toaster, hovering behind her, chimed in.

“It’s so we can CGI over him later,” he explained. “Akira’s still making his Temerity Case videos.”

Argana nodded. It made a better explanation than anything else. Akira had been experimenting with a digital paranormal investigator, an artificial woman named Temerity Case. He’d even asked her to play the part once, although she’d turned him down. It was just unfortunate that Bruce was clearly so ill-at-ease with the role.

“Arms out, Miss. I need to check you for weapons,” said Bruce, his voice a low growl.

She posed herself into a T shape while he frisked her with the backs of his hands.

“This is a lot of effort,” she said.

“Yeah,” agreed Bruce. “But a couple of protestors got in. Y’know, in disguise. I took a catapult and ball-bearings off one.”

“Really? I’ve always wanted a catapult.”

“I’m keeping that. But you can have the ball bearings, they’re weighing my handbag down something chronic. You’re clear, by the way.”

She relaxed, lowering her arms.

“Sure, I’ll take those.”

He swung his handbag - a knock off Louis Vuitton - around so he could open it. He passed her a bag of ball bearings. Twenty or thirty of them, about the size of sultanas.

“What are you going to do with those?” asked Toaster, as he and Argana went on into the building.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Give them to my flatmate, most likely. He’s always just making stuff.”

Toaster opened the door at the end of the hall.

“This way,” he said.

Akira’s cellar having overflowed with technology, the grand dining room had been turned over to ranks and ranks of computers. Most of the workstations were abandoned, their screens still glowing with financial charts. There were people left, Akira’s usual mix of weirdos and wannabes, but no sign of any dark-suited professionals.

Berkshire was off to one side, studying the charts. The room was hot, and he took his jacket off, putting it on the back of a chair. With his back to the centre of the room, he was emphatically not taking an interest in the argument currently unfolding between MacGillycuddy and Akira. But everyone else was watching, their screens forgotten.

The Scouse priest stood immobile, his arms folded and his head titled back judgmentally.

“…And you thought that would be a good idea, did you? To just call demons into people’s homes?”

Akira’s eyes were ringed in dark circles and his hair, usually a tribute to how far you could push modern product, was uncharacteristically tame. He still had his trademark energy though, swaying and twitching as he defended himself.

“It’s not like that! It was a publicity stunt. That’s all.”

“Really?” MacGillycuddy strode to one of the few computers not showing a chart. It was running the Demoncoyn miner, the screen showing churning iterations of arcane circles. “Then how come so many of these symbols are authentic?”

Akira scratched at the back of his neck. “Just lucky I guess. I was inspired, you know.”

“By?” MacGillycuddy’s jaw jutted out in a way that demanded an answer.

“This book…”

“What book?”

“Er…” As Akira retreated, stumbling backward over trailing cables, he spotted Argana coming in.

“Argana!” he yelled, his face flooding with relief.

“Hi,” she said, throwing a sidelong glance at MacGillycuddy. The exorcist threw up his arms in dismay, walking away.

“What’s, er, up?” she asked Akira.

“It’s all gone!” he wailed, clutching his hands up to curse the sky.

“What do you mean, it’s all gone?” Argana looked around. The computer equipment was undoubtably still there. But few of the operators. “Where is everyone?”

“Massive. Price. Collapse,” said Toaster, bitterly.

“It’s all the fault of those jerks at the end of the drive. Pauline Hardcastle and her ilk, religious nutters and interfering luddites, the lot of them!”

“It’s not like you to admit defeat.”

“Defeat? Who said anything about defeat?” said Akira. “We coded a poison pill in Demoncoyn, to prevent a 50 percent attack by rival miners if the price drops too low. I told you before how we can program simple transactions? Well, it has automatically initiated the Bottle Imp Protocol.”

“The what now?” she asked, feeling bombarded with more details than she needed.

“I told you we should have called it the Spiritus Familiaris protocol,” muttered Toaster.

“Ah, from the Brothers Grimm,” said Argana, catching up and feeling more on familiar territory. “A story about a spirit trapped in a jar, which will drag its owner to Hell. That’s a big ask for a bit of software. Although I suppose, you have already techno-ed up a demon.”

“Not that bit,” said Akira, wagging a finger at her.

“Oh.” Argana searched her memory. “In the story, the cursed jar can only be sold for a lower value coin each time.”

“Bingo. You got it, kid.”

Berkshire stopped looking at the screens and came up behind Akira, his hands clasped behind his back.

“You’ve devalued your own currency?” He sounded incredulous.

“Hell yeah! The brokers have started pulling it from the crypto exchanges, which is making it ever harder to trade. The further it drops in value, the harder it is to trade. It’s about on a par with LoadaDoughCoin and PicnicCoin now. Some enterprising soul in the Philippines is buying it hand over fist by issuing their own low denomination crypto.”

“DemonCentCoyn,” interjected Toaster.

Argana looked between them.

“Why would…”

Berkshire’s phone rang. He pulled it inconspicuously from his pocket to check the screen, recognised the number, and took it the rest of the way out.

“Sorry, I’ve got to answer this.” He went out into the hallway.

Argana turned back to Akira.

“Why would they want to make a cent version of your coin?”

He shrugged, grinning.

“Probably in the hope that they can crack the code and re-release it. Who knows? But being traded for a currency pegged to a hundredth of its own value is producing a spiral.”

It still wasn’t making sense to her.

“You look… for someone who is losing all his money, you’re strangely pleased with yourself.”

Akira beamed.

“We’re paying the beggars back, that’s what! They want to mess with us, push us around, well boom, we’ll show them!”

It made a strange kind of sense. All those disappointed traders frantically leaving would spread the word. He’d be notorious, providing his gambit didn’t bankrupt him first.

“Check this out.” Toaster drew their attention to one of the many screens, where a jagged line tumbled down and to the right. “Bitcoin is down 17 percent on the chaos.”

“That’s market clout, that is,” said Akira, proudly. “Not bad considering Demoncoyn’s only worth 3 cents now.”

“What? It was six dollars sixty-six!”

While Akira skittered around the room waving his arms, Toaster explained calmly. “That’s the bottle imp protocol. It’s in the code, it always has been. Well, now the protocol is active, blockchain updates are only recorded if the coin is sold for a lower price than the time before.”

Berkshire came back into the room, phone still in hand. As he opened and closed the door, there was a brief blast of noise, as if of a distant crowd. His eyes found Argana’s at once, his face triumphant.

“She’s found them!”

“Who’s found whom? I’m not psychic!”

“Yasmin. The children, from the ears.”

Argana added as an aside to Akira,

“It’s an expression. I am psychic. A bit.” It paid to maintain a reputation, especially in the hotbed of nutters that was Brink Hall.

Berkshire waved the phone at her.

“Hey, are you listening? She’s got matches.”

“For all the children?”

“Yes. Elmo, all of them.” As he talked, he started putting his jacket on, pushing his arm through a sleeve.

“Are you going to inform their parents?”

“No, I’m going to go and see them!”

“At Judith's?” Argana asked uncertainly. This wasn’t making a lot of sense.

Berkshire paused, half in and half out of his coat.

“I need to go through this more slowly, don’t I?”

“Yes. There’s clearly some important bit you’ve missed out.”

He pulled an antique chair over, nearly snagging it on one of the many cables that snaked across the floor.

“Elmo’s real name is Daniel Winterman. He lives in Stockport. He’s never been reported missing, because he’s not. Yasmin checked the names before she rang me. Not a one of them is recorded as missing.”

“Wow.”

“It gets better. Two of them are matches for people right here in Trotterwell. Silas and Jemma Scholes. If they’re members of—”

“They left! When I met Ryan, one of the other kids, he was telling me they’d left home. Yasmin’s information must have been out of date.”

“That’s a blow. I was going to go over and see them. There’s another match out at Chinley, I could get up there in forty or fifty minutes. We need to interview the children to know why someone is… making faceless copies of them.”

Argana got up, pacing. She clenched her hands together in excitement.

“Don’t be silly, Berk. They’re not the copies. We thought the fae were involved, and we were right. The original children are the ones without faces. The ones you’ve just matched, they’re changelings. Doppelgangers.

"That’s kidnapping…” Berkshire said, aghast.

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised. It’s not like you didn’t know something weird was going on!”

“But then why would the Scholes twins just up and leave?”

“Search me. Who knows what the fae do, or why?”

“Patty Scholes, probably.”

“Yeah, good point.”

“You know, I’m going to go to the station first, talk this over with Cianciolo. I’ll ask her to put the other, er, suspected changelings on a watch list. The twins running might not be an isolated incident. Can you chase up Patty Scholes and ask her some hard questions.”

“Does anyone else hear that?” asked Akira nervously.

For a rare moment they were all quiet and listened. The unmistakable sound of people shouting outside. The words were indistinct.

“It’ll be bloody Hardcastle,” Akira said, sulkily. “This is private land, copper, they can’t protest here!”

“Would you say they’ve come to your home to intimidate you?” asked Berkshire.

“If that’s what I have to say, then yes.”

Berkshire sighed, stood up, and finally put his other arm into his jacket. “I’ll go see if I can talk some sense into them.”

“Me too.” Argana joined him, Max coming to her side. The dog looked alert and serious.

Going back through to the entranceway, they found Toaster already there ahead of them. And Bruce too, sufficiently worked up that he’d forgotten about the indignity of his cardboard costume. The two of them had closed the double doors and had their heads against them, listening to the crowd outside.

“What’s going on?” Argana asked.

“Here, have a look.” Toaster’s hands were shaking as he undid the bolt on a lookout hatch. A little larger than a cat-flap, and an original part of the door, it was about where head height would have been for a man three hundred years ago. Which is to say, Argana only had to duck a little to see through it.

Forty or more people crowded the drive, waving anti-demon posters. They were mostly middle aged, and mostly dressed in that kind of not-quite-smart that only really frumpy people can achieve. A scattering of younger people were among them, making up for their lower numbers with the wildness of their eyes.

In the middle of them all, resplendent in a pink cardigan and power stance, was Councillor Pauline Hardcastle. She saw the hatch open, of course, and started a protest chant.

“No more demons in our land!” she yelled.

“This is how we make a stand!” came the muted, uncertain refrain.

Argana slammed the hatch, although still they could hear the chanting.

“Shouldn’t you be out there doing something?” she asked Bruce.

The security guard pointed glumly at his heels.

“In these shoes? I don’t think so!”

Berkshire looked uneasy, straightening his tie. Not the uneasiness of someone in a dangerous situation, but of someone who has discovered they have to do something very tedious and do it right now.

“You deal with this lot,” Argana told him, unnecessarily. “I’m going to duck out the back way and see if I can find Patty Scholes.”

Berkshire started to say something about protocol, but she wasn’t listening, already speeding away through the smaller corridors that led to the back of the mansion.

She almost knocked MacGillycuddy down in her haste, as he stepped out in front of her.

“Easy, lass! What’s all the noise about?”

She skidded to a halt, as did Max, his nails clattering against the tiled floor.

“It’s the moral superiority. They’ve come for Akira. They think they’re doing God’s work.”

There was a flash of something dangerous in MacGillycuddy’s eyes, half malice and half disdain.

“They do, do they? I’ll tell them about God’s work!” He rolled his sleeves up, striding away from her toward the front door.

The gospel according to MacGillycuddy

Constable Fred Berkshire tensed behind the double doors.

“Leave this to me,” he said.

“No kidding,” growled Bruce. “If I step out there wearing this clobber, I’ll never live it down.”

“You won’t have to live it down,” said Toaster, hoisting his camera onto his shoulder. “We’ll CGI you out, remember?”

Bruce jabbed his thumb at the outside door. “What, of their memories, too?”

“Memories are weird things. Give it a year, half of them will swear blind they saw Temerity Case here,” said Fred, the only one of the group to have done any training on eye witness testimony.

He gripped the doorhandle, tensing to go outside. A hand closed over his, stopping him. MacGillycuddy gave him a serious look.

“You go out there and do your thing. Just stall them. I’ll come out a minute later, and I’ll deal with them.”

Fred pushed the door open, stepping outside.

“We don’t want no demon! Dirty stinky heathen! We don’t want no demon! Dirty stinky heathen!” Forty… no, fifty people took up the chant. A handful faltered, fearful of his police uniform, the rest shouted all the louder. Hardcastle, he noticed, had quietly slipped back a couple of rows so that no one could blame her if things got ugly.

He stood quietly, letting them get it out of their system. There would be a moment, he knew, when they would pause for thought. When they would collectively have to decide whether to back down or escalate. That instant of uncertainty would be his best chance to change their direction. It came, the briefest lull in the chants, the exchanged glances in the crowd as they sought their courage.

Stepping forward, he spread his arms in greeting.

“Hello, Councillor Hardcastle, good people of Trotterwell. I’m going to have to ask you to take this to the end of the drive, as you are currently on private land. That will balance your right to protest with Mr Pixel’s right to enjoy his private residence.”

“Demon lover!” Something whistled past him, splintering against the stone wall of the entranceway. Bottled water, by the looks of it.

“Now I don’t believe that’s any way for good country folk to behave. Do you, Councillor Hardcastle?”

Everyone in the crowd turned toward her. Good. That meant she had to decide what happened next, and she had to own it.

He walked forward, offering his hand for a handshake. She took it, because what else is a wannabe MP going to do when offered a handshake with a police officer?

Fred pulled her close, dropping his voice so that only she could hear. “You’re going to have to take these people out of here, Hardcastle. I’ll walk with you, I’ll laugh like we’re talking, so you don’t lose any face. Deal?”

In answer she fixed him with a stare that told him distinctly that whoever was not with her, was against her. She crushed his knuckles and let go, then raised her voice. Two could play the crowd game.

“We’re a peaceful delegation, Officer, come to talk Mr Pixels out of a terrible mistake! We’ve got the best interests of the community at heart!”

The door to Brink Hall opened, slamming on its hinges loud enough that all eyes snapped to it. MacGillycuddy came out, weaving uncertainly down the stairs, waving a hipflask in his hand. A ripple of consternation went through the crowd.

“Begone!” he yelled. “Be gone, the lot of you!”

Fred stepped out of the way. The crowd, confused, fell away, leaving Hardcastle standing alone. She set her jaw. Thus far she’d played the high ground, and she wasn’t going to abandon it now. She waited for him to get close before addressing him, her voice pitched to carry to her supporters.

“Father, you’re an upstanding man of the cloth… you don’t hold with all this Demoncoyn nonsense, do you?”

He grinned at her, swayed unsteadily, and punched the air with his hipflask.

“I moshe sher’anly do. Um, don’. Demonsh, demonsh are bad. Say no to demonsh.”

“Say no to demons!” yelled someone in the crowd. Fred couldn’t see who.

MacGillycuddy put his hand patronisingly on Hardcastle’s shoulder, waving his other finger at her.

“Ish ok. Father MacGishry gorrit covered.”

He swirled away, nearly tripped over his feet, and threw his arms wide to petition the crowd.

“I’ve been in there, and I’ve taken the confession of the sinner. An he, he’s seen the error of his waysh. So, you can all goan home now, you hear.”

He took a swig of the hipflask, turning its bottom skyward. Then lurched toward the protestors.

“You can go home now! Goan! Go home!” he bellowed.

It was enough. Some, clearly, were terrified of him. Others, convinced that their cause had been served. Fred breathed a sigh of relief.

Pauline Hardcastle alone loitered behind the rest of them. She caught the reeling MacGillycuddy by his sleeve, although he shook her off.

“Thanks for the support there,” she said. “But honestly, you maybe need to scale back on the bottle.”

He straightened, pocketing the hipflask.

“It’s not a demon. It’s something far, far worse.”

“What? Also… you’re not drunk at all, are you?” Hardcastle’s eyes blazed, sensing a trap.

“Sober forty seven years, ma’am. Not always stone cold, but sober. A God fearing Christian… it’s just words to you, isn’t it?”

At this she folded her arms, indignant.

“That’s how I was raised.”

He smiled knowingly, but not kindly.

“You’re not a believer.”

“Oh, yeah, actually, I believe. I can believe hard.”

“But you can’t fear, can you? Because your God is meek, and lived in a crib in a stable and his best friend is a donkey. And at Easter you eat hot cross buns and meaninglessly thank the Almighty for his sacrifice.

“Hey! I don’t like your-”

“You said God fearing. Would you like me to put the fear of God into you?”

“Do your worst. If he’s real, he’s a god of love, right?

“He is real. They are all real.”

She clutched the silver cross that hung at her neck.

“There is only one God, father, or are you being embarrassingly woke? It doesn’t suit a man of your age.”

MacGillycuddy laughed. It made him sound more like a berserker than a deranged exorcist.

“The true God is every bit as beyond the concept of plurality as he is beyond gender. His consciousness spans star systems. It hangs at the lapping edge of black holes, drawing wisdom and sanity in equal measure by dangling Their metaphysical feet into the end of everything. Tell me, what would happen to your thoughts if you existed in multiple timeframes? They’d run over one another, like riptides in a beach. Echoes from a cliff a thousand billion miles away. Do you think, if your mind was like that, that there would be any distinction between being one and being many? Being omnipotent, even over so small a thing as a single spiral arm of the galaxy, fractures your mind beyond any possibility of it ever holding a single thread at a time. That’s what the Trinity is a metaphor for.

Hardcastle looked at him, goggle-eyed, unable to take in what he was saying and equally unable to tear herself away from his intensity.

“I don’t… think you should be talking like that, Father. Our Lord created the universe. Hands that flung stars into space, and all that.”

MacGillycuddy snorted, flaring his nostrils.

“Oh yes, those hands flung stars into space, alright. Flaming balls of hydrogen fusion, hurled against their enemies, consuming entire civilisations in their hatred for the elder gods. A war that lasted for the lifetime of a red dwarf, from one distant rim of the galaxy to the other, until They had laid waste to ten billion worlds and wrought ugly, churning holes in the universe. Spewed ten to the seventeen trillion tons of dark matter, spattered the background radiation with their death throes. No, madam, our God is not the creator. He is something far more terrible than that.“

Her lip trembled. Not in fear exactly, but in the first painful moments of realisation. It was the moment for him to press his advantage.

“So, god of love, you say? Yes, some part of Them loves us, some part of Them wrought an avatar of flesh to dwell among us. But it’s no more than the love of a motorist for an insect he spies upon a flower when stopping to take a wazz in a lay-by.”

“We’re nothing to Him?

“Not nothing, Madam. Something. But something basically infinitely smaller, and infinitely less important than Them.”

“Why would you worship such a god?”

“Because I know my place in the universe, and I’m happy with it.”

One of the crowd, now most of the way down the drive, finally realised their leader wasn’t with them.

“Hardcastle! Are you coming?”

She hurried down the road to join them, stealing alarmed glances over her shoulder. MacGillycuddy gave her a wave Fred stood next to the exorcist, watching her go.

“Well. That was quite something.”

MacGillycuddy nodded, offering the hipflask to him.

“Ginger beer?”

Frying pans at dawn

Argana took Max and drove from Brink Hall back into Trotterwell, to Hadfield Close. She was glad to leave the Hall behind, sure that Berkshire would have the situation in hand. Even if he didn’t, it wasn’t her problem any more. Hadfield Close was near the railway arches. A collection of boxy 1980s housing, bought up cheaply by landlords back when people thought the station might reopen. But when it had been shut in 1967, it was shut forever.

“Alright boy,” she told Max. “This is where Ryan said the Scholes live now. You be on your best behaviour.”

He twitched a tan-coloured eyebrow in response.

“As you insist,” she conceded. “I’ll behave too.”

It was only after they’d got out of the car that it occurred to her that she didn’t know which house the Scholes had moved to. Ryan had said it was a B&B, which at least narrowed it down. There were two obvious B&Bs with welcoming signs and chintzy attempts at cottagecore decorations. She dismissed those at once - the council would want something cheaper. Closer inspection of the signs revealed that three more of the houses, otherwise indistinguishable from the rest, were also rental accommodation.

“We’ll have to try each in turn,” she told Max, crossing toward the first one.

But he sat down obstinately, not following her.

“What are you doing?” He barked very softly, titling his nose to point at the second house.

“Oh yeah,” she said, blushing slightly. “Sometimes I forget you can do that.”

A small girl with black, curly hair answered the door, clutching a toy digger under her arm. She looked up at Argana, unimpressed.

“Well?”

“Hi, have you met my dog?” Argana let Max nose past her. The hound was universally adored by children, and this little urchin was no exception. The girl squealed with delight, squashing his ears against his head. He didn’t mind.

“Is Patty - is your mum in?”

“Mum!” the child yelled, surprising Argana with her sheer volume. “Mum! There’s a doggo here to see you!”

Patty Scholes’ freckled face appeared out of the door at the far end of the corridor, rapidly followed by the rest of her. She dried a bowl with a tea towel as she came.

“A dog? Ah, Argana, I thought you’d be here eventually. Come on through. Shut the door, Elena."

Argana followed Patty to the kitchen, leaving Max behind with the four year old. At first impression, the house was noisy. There might have only been five children and teenagers in the place, but it sounded like a thousand. Running, yelling, videogames beeping and phone videos blaring. All behind closed doors, though. She didn’t see anyone, apart from Ryan, who she glimpsed at the bottom of the stairs. He’d scarpered shyly the moment he saw her. The second impression was that it was tidy. Used to Melvyn’s hoarding and Yasmin’s clutter, Argana had to admire it.

The kitchen was galley-shaped, long and narrow, with shaker cabinets and square tiles in shades of brown and orange. A tiny and impractical table graced the far end. It didn’t have enough storage space for the large family but, although there were tins and vegetables on the work surfaces, they had been stacked neatly.

“Put your eyes back in, girl,” said Patty, leaning against the sink at the far end. “I know I’ve got a reputation in this town, but is it so surprising that I might run a tight ship at home?”

“Um,” said Argana, unwilling to apologise for just looking at something. “I thought this was a B&B? Doesn’t the owner do this stuff?”

Patty picked up another bowl from the drying rack, folding it in the tea towel.

“I’ve arranged for the owner to give us the run of the place. Now, what did you come here for, not that I can’t guess.”

“If you can guess, why not tell me?”

“And do your work for you? There’s something wrong with your generation.” She put the bowl in the cupboard, picking up in its place a cast iron frying pan.

Argana, irked, forgot her plan to be tactful about this.

“You’re in league with the fae, aren’t you?” she blurted.

“There’s a dangerous accusation.” Patty stood away from the sink, heavy frying pan still in hand, and shook her shoulders out. Her face could have been cut from stone, it had set so hard.

Intimidated, Argana took a step back. She swung open the cupboard closest to her, found a frying pan of her own and hefted it. Disappointingly, this one was aluminium.

They stared at each other for a moment, poised like peculiar fencers, frying pans held ahead of them.

Patty bared her teeth, took a swing at Argana’s pan, knocking it out of the way. Argana felt the jolt all the way along her arm, ringing up into her shoulder. Her pan was dinged, bent out of shape by the blow.

She took another step back.

“Maaaaaaax!” she wailed.

The dog barrelled in behind her, snarling and growling, stopping just out of range.

Patty lowered her frying pan, looking between them. She held her stern expression for all of three seconds before she burst out laughing. Creases climbed the sides of her cheeks.

“As if I’d lay you out in my own kitchen! You’ve got to stop jumping to conclusions.”

Argana put a hand on Max’s collar, steadying him. He whined a little, unsure what to make of the situation. To be fair, Argana wasn’t sure either. She put the dented frying pan down on the side though.

“You can put that away properly, for starters,” said Patty, drying her own frying pan.

Argana nodded meekly, putting it in the cupboard. “Can we start this again, please?”

Patty did the honourable thing and made them a cup of tea each, and even found some dog-food for Max. Why she had dog-food, Argana could only guess. They perched at the small table at the end of the kitchen.

“So, Miss Scholes…”

Patty looked slightly smug as she contradicted Argana.

“That’s not my title.”

“No? Mrs Scholes?”

The matriarch shook her head. “My title isn’t Miss Scholes, or Mrs Scholes, or Ms Scholes. It’s not Doctor, Reverend, Right Honourable or Mister, or even Master. I got one proper title, Argana, and that’s this. Speaker.”

“Speaker… you mean, for the Fae?”

Patty nodded. Argana slurped her tea. “And they gave you that title?”

“No, I gave it to myself. If they did the kind of talking that gave out titles, they wouldn’t need a speaker, would they?”

“What did… how did you even become that?”

“I don’t trust you far enough,” said Patty, eyeing Argana appraisingly, “to tell you that. And more to the point, you don’t trust me either. Or my sons and daughters and offspring, and if you think ill of my family, you think ill of me.”

“Here’s what I don’t understand,” Argana told her. “The demon that destroyed your house. That can’t be a coincidence. It’s called Balor-El. I get the impression it has some kind of beef with the fae.”

“Of course it has. The church brought him back during the Fae Wars. You have to ask your friend MacGillycuddy about that.”

“I did. He wasn’t very forthcoming.”

Patty grunted.

“He never has been.” She put her mug down, looking Argana in the eye. “Let me make this clear. I’m helping you because I don’t like that demon being around. You, MacGillycuddy or even that policeman friend of yours, one of you will get rid of it.”

“You’re not afraid for your children? I’m a paranormal investigator, and they are changelings, aren’t they?”

The matriarch’s eyes narrowed. “How’d you figure that?”

“Ryan Arcadia Scholes. Like I said, kind of gives it away.  After you were saying about people being named after where they were conceived.”

Patty smiled, rueful.

“Atta girl. But I’m not afraid for them.  You can’t banish changelings. It doesn’t work that way. You can expose them, but who’s going to believe you? No, only two things you can do with them. You can kill them, and you’re no killer. They’re people, how could you? Or you can persuade them to go. They’ve always been free to. The twins went already.”

Argana leant forward, pushing both hands down onto the table.

“You’ve got to tell me, Speaker, what do the fae need all those changelings for?”

"They’ve never told me as such, although I’ve got my guesses."

"You don’t even know, but you’re still helping."

“Someone’s got to. Otherwise, there’s just these lost changelings, wondering the Earth, no idea who they are… Here, move your backpack, love, I’m going to get on with my chores.”

Argana did as she was asked, pulling her backpack out of the way of the washing machine she’d left it in front of. Patty took a final slurp of her drink, then got up. She left the room, returning with a basket of clothes, and preceded to separate them by colour.

Argana watched her peel a green t-shirt from a beige blouse.

“Does Ryan know what he is?” she asked.

Patty gave her a long, hard look.

“You know I int gonna answer that.”

“Ok. Try this. You know about the faceless children, the ones in the giant cabbages up at Grindleford. Judith - that’s one of the firefighters - said you had collections of unopened clothes at your old house. Someone had been redressing the faceless children. I think that someone was you.”

Patty was going through the pockets of a pair of jeans as she answered.

“Cabbages, huh? I’ve been calling them ubersprouts. Yes. That was me. They grow, we take them new clothes every now and again. The plants are protected by a glamour, people can’t see them. They don’t see it when we walk right up to them, they just don’t even wonder where we went.”

“I’ve seen the records. You’ve fostered a lot of kids over the years.”

“Thirteen. It’s a good number.”

“Where do they go?”

Patty shrugged.

“Where does anyone go? Some go back to their old families. Others grow up and move on.”

Argana tapped her fingers unconsciously against the table.

“Oh, come on. You know what I’m talking about. Do they get swapped back?”

“Of course they do! The original children, the ones who were taken. Did you think they were unconscious in those plants? No, they spend the whole time dreaming. They dream their lives, so that they’ve got memories when they come back. So, they don’t know they were ever missing.”

“You said you’ve got a guess why they do it? They can’t just be doing it for the giggles, surely?”

Patty didn’t answer. She was turning something she’d found in her jeans over in her hands. A cigarette lighter, the same shape as a zippo but ceramic not metal. A relief carving on the outer surface of a creature inlaid with green gems. Maybe it was a scarab, it was hard to tell, half obscured in her hand. She smiled at it for a moment, as if reminiscing, then held it out toward Argana.

“You want this?” she asked. “It’s just a trinket.”

“Um, no thanks. It’s bad enough everyone thinks I collect dragons.”

“Suit yourself. Maybe your magician flatmate will like it.” She tucked it into the top of Argana’s bag. “Now then, why changelings? You tell me your guess first, lazy child.”

Argana leaned back, putting her hands together. She gazed at the ceiling, mind churning through everything she’d learned about them. Everything she’d experienced.

“There’s a lot of fae, and most of them are like nature spirits, or crazy, animalistic things like boggarts and kobolds and gnomes. They’re driven more by instinct than intellect. There’s something about the opening up of the world, the march of progress, which pushes them back. Like, the more we nail everything down, the less of the mystery in between there is for them to live in. “

“You’ve got the thread of it. Keep pulling.”

“When most people - human people - settled down, claimed land, the people who didn’t, the nomads, got squeezed out,” mused Argana. “The whole world was theirs, until it wasn’t. I think the fae are like that, but it’s not land they’re being squeezed out of, it’s knowledge. Knowledge of what is and what isn’t, because they’ve always lived on that line. And iron, too. They’re not big fans of iron, cold or otherwise.”

Patty put down a pair of boxer shorts and folded her arms.

“And if you knew enough to know that, in your more lucid moments, what would you do about it?”

“You mean, if I was fae?”

Laughing, Patty stood up.

“I don’t mean if you were Argana Zeit, do I? I doubt all your capering leaves you any time for being lucid.”

“Then,” said Argana seriously, “I’d want something to protect myself with. A bit of the human way of thinking. To know what I was up against, to know how to shape it my way.”

“There, you see, you did know already.”

Argana’s mouth dropped open. She could feel her nape hairs tingling.

“The changelings are here to learn? To stop magic from draining from the world?”

“Not all magic. But fae magic, yes. And the ones that are strongest, who hold on to that machine mind for longest, they’re the ones who know how to make deals. To think, and to know they’re thinking.” Patty glanced at the clock on the microwave. “I hate to throw you out, young lady, but if I’m any judge I’ve got to be somewhere in an hour and a half. I’ve got that itchy feeling. The one you get in your soul. You know?”

Argana did know, and right now, she had that feeling too.

Argana got back in her car, her mind still whirling. She’d already let Max into the back. They were about to set off when she saw the missed call on her phone.

“It’s the landlord from the Crimea Hotel,” she told Max, heart leaping. “Cross your little paws and pray to your dog-gods, and this time next week we’ll be living in a place to ourselves.”

She rang them back. “Hi, this is Miss Zeit,” she said when the phone was answered. That was all the fawning formality she could muster.

“Hi, it’s Mrs Glade. Thanks for calling back. Bad news, I’m afraid. The flat’s fallen through.”

Argana slapped the dashboard in irritation, setting off the car horn. A startled cat ran out of a nearby hedge.

“What! Are you serious? Was it the credit check?” That was her best guess. She didn’t earn a great deal as a sales assistant. A third of her income came from her freelance paranormal shenanigans. But it was too erratic a source for banks to ever take seriously.

“Actually, no,” said Mrs Glade, sounding nasal over the phone. “I wasn’t going to say but, seeing as you ask, I’m afraid your reference didn’t check out.”

“That slimy, dirt bagel! DeVries lied to my face.” Even as the words left her mouth, she knew she wasn’t helping her cause. In that instant though, she didn’t care. Better to be angry and homeless. DeVries. Never trust a man wearing snakeskin, her mother had always said.

“I’m taking you off our lists, I’m sorry.”

“No! Don’t do that! I’ll get guarantors, put up a bigger deposit, whatever-”

“It’s like this,” said Glade sadly. “Private landlords want simple, no trouble tenants. They can have John Smith with his steady job, strong credit rating and flawless references. Why would they take a chance on you?”

“Because they understand that the world is more complex than John Smith and his flipping pressed suit, and that just maybe a scruffy girl with freckles is worth putting up with because she, I dunno, saves the town every three months!”

“I’m getting an intimidating vibe from you. I’m going to go now.”

“You coward!” she screamed into the phone, alarming several passersby. Max barked for emphasis.

After minutes of clenching her fists and breathing hard, she’d calmed down enough to talk normally.

“We’ve been stitched up,” she told Max. “We’ll have to break the bad news to Melvyn that he’s got guests for the rest of eternity. Dear gods, I’m twenty four and I live in a tent in a garage!”

She’d intended to go straight back to Melvyn’s place, to lick her wounds, but instead she got curious. They swung by the library on the way home. Taking a little more care than normal, she parked the car in the shade and lowered the windows. He could get out if he wanted.

“You’re going to have to stay here, Max. I just want to check a few things out.”

Leaving him behind, she went up the path to the library. It had that sense of fallen grandeur, its own little rose garden, largely unkempt. Faux Grecian pillars and the sort of ornate brick details that people of a bygone age enjoyed so much. They’d sold half the building long ago to coffee capitalists, moving much of their stock to the larger library in Derby.

But that didn’t matter. They still kept deep stacks of local records. DeVries had double-crossed her. When her anger had subsided, she’d asked herself why. He was a reasonable man normally, or at least so said half the town. Someone had leant on him. Either they had dirt on him, or he owed them something. And, really, there was only one great event in his life that everything else flowed from. That moment in the 80s when Enemy Unbound had topped the charts with their one hit glorious wonder. So, whoever was pressuring him, odds on they were around then too.

The librarian was a short woman with silver hair drawn into a high bun, elaborate earrings, wearing a summer dress adorned with skulls and dominoes. Although she affected the movement and mannerisms of middle age, her hair was an illusion, dyed grey. Really, Edith Carter was in her thirties. She was at work on a trolley of returned books when Argana entered, causing her to look up.

“Hello,” she whispered, “I must remind you of our gentlewoman’s agreement. That you if you’re reading Section 398.45 you don’t cackle too loudly.”

“Um, I’ll try not to,” Argana couldn’t help whispering too. She had no recollection of making such a deal, but then, she’d never bothered to memorise the Dewey-Decimal system. That was reserved for a very specific class of geek.

Edith took a book from the top shelf of the trolley, opened it carefully, and scanned a barcode on the inside. She put it on the stack on her desk. Realising that Argana hadn’t gone anywhere, she adjusted her glasses on her nose. The glasses, Argana noticed, didn’t in any way distort her face. They were entirely for show.

“Is there something you wanted?” She asked.

“I’m after the Trotterwell Times. I want to look at…” Argana cast her mind back to her conversation with DeVries. The poster on the wall, his award from the Academy. “1984.”

“One second.” Edith detached a key from the ring at her belt, passing it over. “Bring this back when you’re done, all right?”

A locked door took Argana to a set of stairs leading under the building, to the cellar.  It was no bad thing that she’d had to leave Max behind, he hated underground spaces. He was about the bravest dog she knew, but he had a thing about going subterranean. At her arrival, fluorescent bulbs flickered into light. They illuminated rows of metal shelves, and the labelled brown boxes among them. An all-pervading hum emanated from the walls, where the council kept dehumidifiers running continuously.

She ran a finger along the box labels, reading them. Metres and metres of shelving were given up to the Trotterwell Times, which in the eighties had been a substantial paper. Opening the fourth box, she found an index of articles. Her fear of being right balanced her fear of being wrong, and both played on her nerves as she searched the contents.

Picking the most likely, she fetched a newspaper from March that year. Opened it carefully to page nine. “Gotcha. Come on then, DeVries, don’t disappoint me now.”

And there it was. Third column, a subheading. Local band signs new manager.

A photo headed the article. DeVries in his younger days, wearing drainpipe jeans and power shoulders. Thick, black hair fell to his shoulders. Or at least, she guessed it was black, as the image was in greyscale. Grainy black-and-white dots made it up, smudged with time. He was shaking hands with someone, presumably the new manager. There was a caption beneath it, confirming her assumption.  Frans DeVries (left) shakes hands with Hayes Tour, manager of Eigenstar records.

“Hayes Tour,” she read aloud, not liking the sound of it.

An uneasy sensation clutched at her heart. Something about that manager was horribly familiar. His narrow shoulders, the fit of his suit. She pulled a magnifying glass from her backpack, holding it over the image.

The two men, she saw, were not shaking hands. They passed a plate between them, holding it toward the camera, the way two wrestlers might hold a belt. Or two businesspeople, their contract.

Finally, she made herself concentrate on the second man’s face. He was less than twenty of the paper’s thick dots across, making his features indistinct. She could make out the high cheekbones, the narrow frame. The arched brows. That alone wasn’t enough to make a solid identification. But the poise was.

Because she’d seen it before. In person. She could make a guess at the true colour of that greyscale suit, too. The man - or being - behind that face liked making deals. Liked trading things, liked games. Masqueraded as The Devil to do so. She shuddered. The last time she’d met him, she’d barely escaped with her soul. She wasn’t sure she had it in her to do it twice.

DeVries had been right about his band. He couldn’t get Enemy Unbound going, because they were rubbish. Until he traded something for success. And now she had the proof of who with.

She ground her teeth.

“The bloody King clad in interfering Yellow.”

An unexpected gift

Despite the wipers, Constable Fred Berkshire could barely see out through the windscreen. The rain was coming down heavily, shrouding the hills in sheets of grey. It threw up bubbles in the lake that the car park had become.

“I knew I should have waterproofed these boots,” complained Inspector Cianciolo, seated on the passenger side of the interceptor. If she had regrets about letting him talk her into coming out to see the stone, he couldn’t blame her.

“You should have changed those boots, is what you should have done.” He said, glancing into the footwell. Cianciolo, short and generally considered stylish, rarely wore regulation footwear. Today she had on a pair of patent leather Chelsea boots, with block heels. Calf-skin, if Fred was any judge. Which he wasn’t.

She snorted, looking out through the window which was already steaming up. Unlike their earlier visits to Lawrence Field above Grindleford, the parking places were deserted. Even the hippies had decided that staying dry was better than worshipping the earth mother, or whatever it was they thought they were doing on the hilltop.

“I’ve got a set of forensic covers in the boot, I’ll get those for you, ok?”

“Those blue things? Seriously?”

“It’s not like anyone will see you.”

He went around the back, fetching them an umbrella each and a pair of bright blue elasticated plastic bags for her. She put them on reluctantly, pulling a face, but saw the sense of it when she stepped out of the car into a puddle. It was unavoidable. The entire roadside was one continuous puddle, and a muddy one at that.

It was unfortunate that the police didn’t issue gaiters or even galoshes. Cianciolo’s feet might have been dry, but by the time they reached the top of the hill, they’d pushed through enough bracken and high grasses to both be soaked from the thighs down. Practically the waist down, in her case.

“Next time you ask me to back you up in the rain, remind me that it’s a paperwork day, will you?” she grumbled. “Your stupid stone will still be here tomorrow, when the weather’s better.”

“Tomorrow we’re dealing with that pig fraud case.” He walked four paces ahead of her, just close enough that he blocked a little of the wind, far enough that whenever he pushed past a branch or bramble, it didn’t whip back and catch her in the face. “The stone’s important. It turned up when the faceless kids did.”

“Yeah, you told me.”

“It’s got my badge number on it!”

“That’s the only reason I’m out here, backing you up. It sounds like a trap to me.”

There were other reasons too, of course, but they all related to an absence of personnel. Peel was on holiday, someone else was sick, and Moira McPhee had twisted her ankle sword-dancing and was only fit for crewing the reception desk.

The good news was that it wasn’t raining at the summit. The bad news was that that was because they were in the clouds. Dense fog gripped them, allowing barely twenty metres of visibility. Water stuck to them out of the air, making the brollies useless.

Ahead of them, the dark shape of the trilith finally came into view, looming in the fog.

“It was less ominous-looking in your report,” shuddered Cianciolo.

The sky brightened, a whisp of thinner fog where the sun could stab through. A ray of light fell on the stones, making them brighter than the area around, gleaming with a warm intensity.

“I think that’s worse,” muttered Fred.

He stopped in front of the stones, turning his head, trying to peer into the fog.

“Are you looking for someone?” she asked him.

“Just making sure that oik Ewan isn’t lurking out there. It would be just like him.”

“You going to make me stand here all day, Constable? I’m freezing my badge off.”

“Just one minute.”

Studying the entranceway, Fred found the inscription of his police ID in the lintel stone, unchanged. Then the three circular depressions in the side, the ones that marked out his opportunities. A skull embossed in the first one, from when he and Ewan had failed to get in. The second one was also filled. It seemed someone else had tried to get in since he’d last been there.

“Just one chance left. This chance.”

“Well, take it then,” she told him.

“We don’t know what will happen if it rejects me a third time.”

She considered that for a moment. “Alright, before you do, remind me why you think you’ve got it figured out this time.”

“It’s the Ogham - that’s this set of lines over here - it translates to; ‘enter with one higher than yourself.’”

“Hah, and that’s me!” Cianciolo laughed sardonically. She was a good forty centimetres shorter than Fred. “Because you’ve convinced yourself that it ‘higher than’ means higher ranked.”

“It makes sense to me. Just be ready to dial 999.”

Without waiting to be urged on again, Berkshire strode forward, arm outstretched, into the darkness between the standing stones. This time it didn’t stop him. The darkness swallowed him, and he fell.

He was on loose soil, sliding. Some kind of cave. It smelt of earth and roots, of untouched air. But he could see nothing, all light swallowed in the absolute blackness. And still he slid. Unable to tell how far or fast he was going, a cold, entirely rational fear gripped him. What if, lost underground, he slid over a crevasse, and tumbled to his doom? Or was dashed upon sharp rocks?

He flattened himself out on his back, starfishing his legs. His limbs, spread out, offered more resistance, and he slowed. Only once his descent had stopped did he fetch out his torch.

The chamber, the depth and width of a three storey house, was roughly teardrop shaped. What he could see of the walls were tiled, mosaic-like, with drifting scenes that he could not understand. He rested on a slope that came down from an opening near the top of the curved wall. Other archways, at ground level, led into dark tunnels of their own. All this he saw in an instant, and then the torch winked out. He shook it and slapped it, cursing the batteries, but it didn’t help.

There was a glow in one of the tunnels, very dim, reflected from around the bend. He stared at it, willing his eyes to dilate further, to eat up every glimmer. There was movement. A shadow, perhaps, of something moving ahead of the light source. He swallowed, his hand going to his hip pocket and finding his extensible baton.

“Bear with me a minute…” said a voice in the darkness. It sounded dry-lunged and wet lipped, and very, very old.

Fred always believed that the first defence of a good police bod was good manners. Letting go of the baton, he stood up, dusting the soil off his uniform as best he could. Folded his hands behind his back.

The creature emerged from the tunnel. Two smaller, goblin-like companions flanked it, each bearing a glowing crystal. Bathed in that soft light, the creature seemed immense and slow. Multiple bulbous eyes protruded from its amphibious, wide-mouthed head. Its body, half again as tall as a human, was shrouded in a patchwork cloak. Tiny hands and spindly arms seemed mismatched with its elephantine feet. It bore a herd of living jewellery, iridescent insects of an unknown species crawling across its surface. For decoration, maybe.

“Evening, Sir,” hazarded Fred. “This, er, your hole, is it?”

“Hole,” it said, rolling the sound in its mouth as if tasting it.

Fred said nothing. The thing came closer, although its retinue hung back, eyeing him suspiciously. Which, among other things, meant that the creature was backlit, its face made extra sinister by the shadows.

“You may call us - may call me - the Lord of Toads.”

“Constable Frederick Berkshire.” Fred extended a hand on the off chance, but to his relief, the gesture was ignored.

“We know who you are. Your bravery saved many of our Kindred from the Fomorian lord Balor-El. I am grateful. You will be rewarded.”

“Just, er, doing my job.”

“Kneel,” it demanded.

He did so. It wasn’t like running away down one of the unlit tunnels was likely to make him any safer. Still, he only went down to one knee, so he could be up and sprinting if he had to. Bowing his head slightly was easy. It meant he didn’t have to stare into those dozen or so eyes.

The creature reached out its small hands, half the size of his, its pipe-cleaner arms lost in the folds of its cloak. It reached for his face, searching his cheekbones. He shut his eyes, and the thing’s thumbs brushed his eyelids.

It let go.

There was an explosion of light inside Fred’s head. A juddering sensation, like a sleep twitch, but through his whole soul. A burst of stars. Coloured lights, dancing on the inside of his eyes. Swaying, his eyes flicked open. For an instant, nothing he saw made any sense, a relentless rearrangement of chaotic shapes and twinkling flashes.

“Look at me. Look at us.”

He did.

And once he knew what he was looking at, he laughed. It was no longer the Lord of Toads. In its place, three more of the goblinoids. Scaly skin. Huge, liquid eyes and bat-wing ears. One of them stood on the shoulders of the other two, the cloak only loosely wrapped around them. They cackled, and the topmost of them fell off, tumbling to the floor. And then they were running, scattering into the tunnels.

Alone in the dark once more, he couldn’t see what happened next. But he felt it. A mighty wind, battering stone and soil against him. An impact, a rushing sensation.

It spat him out of the earth, tumbling awkwardly across the grass above ground, blinking in bright sunlight.

“Fred! Fred! Are you okay?”

Cianciolo’s voice. He couldn’t see her, still blinking against the sunlight.

“Luciana? What’s going on?”

Her hands patted him, testing for wounds. Then she got hold of his arm and shoulder.

“I was hoping you could tell me that. You disappeared, and just like that the fog rolled back and the sun streamed in. Now I wish I had sunblock on! Mother of God, Constable, you weigh a ton.”

Half leaning on her, half pushing with his free arm, he heaved himself to his feet. He could almost see now, and it seemed to him that there was another person. Waiting a dozen metres down slope from him.

“Who’s that?”

“Never you mind. We’ve got to move!”

Despite having got Fred to his feet, Cianciolo was still pulling at him. He went with it. It was his ears that told him what the problem was. A vast, reverberating sucking noise. Things crashing, a volume of stagnant air being displaced. He didn’t need to look back to know the dolmen had collapsed into the earth from which it had come.

Panting with effort, they got out of range of the collapse. It brought them right up to the other person, who Fred could finally see clearly. Red-headed, heavy armed, feet planted. Plain dress worn over blue jeans.

“Patty…” he said, running out of sentence sooner than he expected.

“She arrived right after you went in,” Cianciolo whispered.

“Ah, Constable Berkshire. I’m glad it’s you.” Patty came closer, hands hanging loose at her sides. “And Inspector, it was right that you came to witness. Thank you.”

“It poked me in the eyes,” said Fred.

“Who?” his boss asked.

“He called himself the Lord of Toads… but…”

“But? Go on.” Patty urged him.

“There was three of them, stacked up to look like one. I couldn’t see it at first. It was a good illusion in the dark.”

Patty laughed.

“That’s a valuable gift.”

Fred squinted at her.

“Gift?”

“It was a glamour, not a trick, which made you see three stacked rootkin as the Lord of Toads. It was their gift that let you see them.”

He laughed reflexively.

“You’d be surprised how rarely spotting three people stacked together is important in police work.”

“The faesight, you twerp. They gave you the faesight.”

Fred tilted his head, trying to fathom the implications.

“Don’t worry,” Patty continued, “it won’t last forever. Then it would drive you mad. No, it’s meant as a blessing, not a curse. It’ll last a year and a day only.”

Lost for words, he just nodded.

She curtseyed to them. “Good day, Officers.” Whistling to herself, she set off along the path to the woods.

Cianciolo watched her go, still standing next to Fred.

“What was that all about?”

“I think,” Fred said slowly, “that this gift is going to get me into a lot of trouble.”

Whoops, there goes NeoTokyo

It was a weary Argana Zeit who returned to Melvyn’s apartment and found she and Max had the place to themselves.

“My head’s swimming,” she told the dog. “I think we should settle in for the rest of the day and watch reruns. I’m thinking Midsomer Murders.”

It was while she was fixing herself a hot chocolate that she made the mistake of checking her phone. Three missed calls and a message from Yasmin. She groaned, knowing she would have to go out again. But that’s not what the message said, when she looked it.

It read: ‘Given up calling. Important news. Meet me in Dino Rampage.’

Argana sighed.

“I mean, she couldn’t she just call me? Again?”

Dino Rampage was a multiplayer game her whole cohort were keen on, and Yasmin especially so. There was just one problem. Argana’s laptop had been destroyed in the housefire.

She dialled Melvyn, but he didn’t answer. She left a voicemail. “Hey, if you get this, let me know if it’s ok to borrow your console.”

There was definitely a TV. There were several in fact, but most of them were useless cathode ray tube models with unfathomable stone-age inputs. In the few days they’d lived together, they’d never watched anything on the screen. So it took her a while to figure out that the only one with an HDMI port was hidden behind a reproduction oil painting. Max padded around, helpfully poking his nose into cupboards.

She knew there was a console somewhere too, because she’d played against him online in the past. Had handed him a whooping at something that was possibly titled Deranged Italian Plumber Racing. She couldn’t remember exactly. It was Max who found the device, pawing open a desk drawer. There it lay with all its cables.

She set it up, logging in with her own details, and settled down on the most comfortable sofa. Max, sensing that a period of inaction was pending, curled up near her feet. And then she was in.

“Dino Rampage Three,” boomed a synthetic voice with hints of both American and Japanese accents.

Selecting a private co-op game, she found a yellow panda avatar waiting for her in the lobby. Yasmin, logged into her own machine.

“You took your time,” said Yasmin.

“What? Melvyn’s out and his antique-store-chic just doesn’t cut it as a rational storage system. I don’t see why, if it’s so important, I couldn’t just ring you back.”

“Pick a dinosaur already. New York or Neo Tokyo? Neo Tokyo, it’s the classic. I’m not calling because if I do, you’ll want to come over. I already tidied once this week, and I’m not doing it again for you or anybody.”

Argana scrolled through the available dinosaurs, selecting a spiky purple one with six limbs and laser eyes.

“I wouldn’t have minded.”

Yasmin, piloting a winged turtle, sucker punched her through a skyscraper.

“Hey! I thought it was co-op!”

“Oh, I forgot. Here let me help you up.”

Yasmin’s giant turtle pulled her to her feet, both monsters over eight stories tall. The game’s simplistic auto-assist mistook the move for a grapple. Eighty tons of displaced concrete and a thousand square metres of shattered glass later, Argana had been suplexed through a glass palace.

“Butterfingers,” said Yasmin, giggling.

“Knock it off! I’ll give you the laser eyes, I’m warning you.”

She was saved from any more dino-on-dino action by a warning klaxon. Looking out to sea over the cityscape, she saw the first wave of dayglow crabs crawl from the waves. One scooped up a yacht within its doubled claws and hurled it at them. It sailed over dinosaur-Argana’s head, taking off the top half of a post-modern mall.

She snapped the spire off a gothic church, wielding it as a club. “So what’s this all about?”

“Oh, we have to kill these before we can do the Atlantis level. Those triangles on their shells are….”

“You distinctly sent me a text saying you needed to talk to me urgently. And to meet you in the game.”

“Sorry, yes. I was getting carried away there.”

By the looks of it, Yasmin was still getting carried away. This time literally by one of the crabs, until she managed a reversal. Despite the beast lacking the requisite anatomy, she had it in an ankle lock. It tapped out, banging a massive claw against the waves.

“This is a game…” she said, as she released the beast to scuttle back into the sea.

“I’d noticed.”

“…which means the encryption is good. Not theoretical good, but actual good, to stop cheaters. That makes it a very secure line.”

Argana picked up a tram and smashed an onrushing crab in the face with it. It was knocked clean through a beachside arcade, but it kept coming at her.

“Secure line? What are you going to tell me?”

“I hacked Akira Pixels.”

“Yaz! Dude.” If their dinosaurs had been closer, shed’ have gone for a high-five.

“Wasn’t that hard, actually. His consultants have a high churn rate, and he always cycles them before they’ve completed their tasks. Proof of concepts are easy to put together. They’re also, by definition, unfinished. In the software world, unfinished tends to mean insecure.”

“Then what?”

“Hold on.” Yasmin crabbed a crab by a trailing claw and started to swing it around, like an Olympian preparing to throw a hammer. This despite the fact the kaiju was twice her dinosaur’s size. “Demoncoyn had seed values to generate the first ten thousand or so, the ones that he air dropped to early investors. After that, a central server sends out a rebasing seed every three iterations.”

She let go of the crab, which flew over NeoTokyo in a kilometre high arc. Argana intercepted it as it came down, clouting it with the tram like she was playing rounders. Her screen exploded with bonus declarations.

“And again, but this time in English?” she asked.

“It’s bad design. They’re meant to be random, but every thousand and twenty-fourth Demoncoyn can be reconstructed from base principles. The seed value is like a phrase that’s used as a key to make it.”

Argana slam-dunked the crab into the volcano at the centre of the island. Flames engulfed it, spewing more bonus points into the sky.

“What’s the phrase?”

“That’s the crabs done. Come back to the beach. It’ll be the collateral damage bonus round next.”

“That’s never it.”

“No,” agreed Yasmin, as Argana’s purple dinosaur smashed its way toward the sea, felling buildings left and right. “Mostly the seeds are from Akira’s favourite books. Sometimes they’re images though, that he’s converted to hash values so he can use them.”

“Ok.”

“Here, snap off that tower. The big one.”

Argana did as she was told, toppling a telecommunications tower. Workers leapt from the upper stories, their parachutes opening automatically. They drifted through the sky like willow blossom. The tower must have been five hundred metres high.

Yasmin caught the far end as it toppled.

“This is the best bit, Argie. I figured out the exact coin that was minted when this six dollars sixty-six limit was hit on the exchanges. Akira used an image for the seed, a page from a book with a stupid name.”

“A book with a stupid name?” Argana put down her controller in excitement, thinking of Melvyn’s stack of ancient books. And the one he’d failed to buy, because Akira had outbid him. “Was it, by any chance The Illuminated Book of Darkness?”

“That’s the one! I searched for a copy online so I could replicate the seed, but there’s no record of it. Here, is your connection down? You’re not moving.”

“Oh, sorry.” Argana picked the controller up again, adjusting her monster so that she was holding one end of the tower and Yasmin the other. A pole bridging between them. “Do you know who the coin belonged to?”

“Yeah. Hang on a minute.”

A clock appeared on the screen, giving them sixty seconds to smash as much of NeoTokyo as they could.

“Go!” yelled Yasmin. Holding opposite ends of the tower, they rushed forward. It crushed every building on the line between them, hurling cars into the air and pouring bonus points into the sky.

“It’s rare for a miner or an exchange to register a real name, but you’re lucky Argana.”

The timer got down to twenty seconds. They reached the city’s only power plant, crushing down its cooling towers. Pounding the communications tower into the concrete domes housing the nuclear reactor.

“It was mined by one Jessica Arbuthnot.”

With one second left, the reactor exploded, taking the entire east side of the city with it and hurling both dinosaurs into orbit. Argana’s purple avatar hung somewhere near the moon, its eyes replaced with cartoon crosses. She didn’t care. She recognised that name. Mrs Arbuthnot was one of the tourists who had found Elmo, who had the faesight. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Argana had assumed it was the fae who had gifted the power, but this presented an alternative explanation. As a fae-hunter, the demon Balor-el would have his own version of the sight. By summoning him, Mrs Arbuthnot could have gained the power herself.

“Game Over,” declared the trans-Pacific voice from the start of the game.

“Oh yeah!” Argana punched the air, letting go of the controller and sending it ricocheting down the room.

“Awesome,” agreed Yasmin. “That’s a high score right there.”

The Illuminated book of darkness

After another round of Dino Rampage and a regenerative cup-of-tea or two, Argana summoned the energy to go back out to Brink Hall. The gravel drive was still pitted, long wheel tracks dragged through it where the financiers had left in their hurry. The main gate, usually policed by an intercom system, was jammed open. Damaged by the now absent protesters, most likely.

The mansion’s double doors were closed, so she banged on them. The hatch sprung open, briefly revealing Bruce’s face, then shut again.

He opened the door proper.

“Oh, it’s you again.”

“You’re looking charming as ever, Brucie,” she teased, skipping past him. Max padded at her heel.

Bruce just grunted, still adorned with the cut-out Temerity Case and wig that she’d seen him in before. He had at least found his balance in the heels, though.

She found Akira in his office, having apparently abandoned the cellar now that there were fewer workers. The view was better, looking out over the landscaped gardens to the rear of the hall. Unusually, he was alone, not one of his flunkies and Pixelites there. Not even the ever-present Toaster.

He smiled at her.

“Hi, so, what can I do for you? You’re here a lot, I might start charging you for tours.”

“Are you joking? I’m here all the time because you’re in trouble all the time!”

He shook his head.

“Nonsense! You just want to raise your profile.”

Argana raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“Seriously,” he insisted. “Look, my number 3 blog is huge, and you want a slice of that exposure. It gets an average of three kay unique viewers.”

She stuck her tongue out.

“What, a decade?”

“A week! Check it out.”

He led her to one of the screens. Poking briefly through his website, he found what he was looking for.

“Local heroine solves possessed mole infestation.” He announced.

Argana peered in for a better look. Toaster had been there at the time, of course, taking photos and shooting videos. Although she’d been the heroine in question, it had never occurred to her that Akira would make a story out of it. Foolish really. Only she wasn’t in it, not properly. Another woman was there, in the situation that she remembered. An action heroine, both prettier and more dangerous looking than Argana herself. Her dungaree dress, opaque tights and high-heeled boots were familiar, too. She matched Bruce’s costume. At first glance she passed as flesh-and-blood. It was only by freezing the video and zooming it that it became obvious that the impostor was computer generated.

“You blanked me out!” Argana screeched, outraged “You’ve got no right to do that!”

Akira titled his head and smiled patronisingly.

“I’ve got more right to market Temerity Case here than I have to market you, honey!”

Argana put her hands on her hips and pouted.

“At the very least, you owe me a motion capture fee.”

He was smiled slyly, but not for her benefit.

“I paid you at the time,” he said. “If you didn’t read your contract, that’s on you.”

She stomped up and down irritably, watched by Max. Took a deep breath to calm herself.

“Look, I didn’t come here to play body double for your fictional hero, that’s for sure. You want me to do that, you can jog on! Is that what you called me here for?”

“I didn’t call you! But you’ve got to admit, you make a better double than Bruce does. I think he’s going to quit.”

“You didn’t call… oh yeah. That reminds me, I came here for the book. After cutting me from my own history, it’s the least you can do.”

This time Akira’s smile was genuine.

“Being as it’s you, I’ll give you a copy, gratis. I’ll sign it and everything.”

“Er, ok,” said Argana, puzzled.

He opened a cupboard, retrieving the topmost of a stack of books. A cartoonish imitation of his own face disgraced the cover, under the title '110%, the Akira Pixels Story.' And under that, 'The unauthorised truth. By Mira Boot.'

“That wasn’t the book I… hey, why does it say 'unauthorised'?”

“Seemed like the safest bet.” He shrugged carelessly. “I haven’t read it yet.”

She laughed, spotting that the author name was an anagram.

“Of course you haven’t. Mira Boot indeed. I am Robot. You just threw half your blog at ChatGPT and let it go at it.”

“More or less. Who do you want it signing to?”

“I think…” She didn’t finish. There was no point, he was already scribbling with a sharpie.

Closing the book before the ink was dry, he passed it to her.

“Are we done here?”

“No! That’s not the book I’m here for! I want The Illuminated Book of Darkness! It’s linked to the demon…”

She regretted saying that last bit as soon the words left her mouth. Akira’s eyes lit up.

“Is that so? That at least doubles its value!”

“Look, I need to help sort all the chaos your ridiculous app caused!”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that. After MacGillycuddy got stuck into her, Hardcastle quit her moral crusade nonsense. The Jeffersons even had their tenants come and scrub ‘Satanist’ off the end wall. They didn’t own up, of course. Blamed it on Travellers, but everyone knows it was them.” He dusted his hands one against the other. “All’s well as ends well, right?”

“It hasn’t ended well! There’s a half dozen kids without faces, a house burned down, an ancient king of the Fomor on the loose, and fairies kidnapping people. It’s not going well at all!”

“You can’t put all that at my feet. If you want the book, it’ll set you back a couple of grand.”

“A couple of grand! You didn’t pay anything like that for it!”

He grinned mock-apologetically.

“Yes, and now you’re telling me it’s demon-linked. That gives it provenance.”

“Ok. Give me a minute to figure something out.” Argana got up and paced the room, Max watching her uncertainly. She didn’t have that kind of money, that was for sure. Swallowing her pride, which didn’t taste great, she thought of something he might accept. “I’ll give you an angle on the Fomor story.”

“I’m listening. And…?”

When she couldn’t bring herself to say it, Argana nodded at the computer screen. It still showed her CGI not-double mid-stride. Temerity Case, on the case. Akira got the message. He tried to hide it, but the smug shone through his eyes.

“I’ll do it on camera,” she said reluctantly. “And - and I’ll let you superimpose that stupid, impeccable-bone-structured wench over me.”

“Perfect!” Akira rubbed his hands together with unrestrained glee.

She held up a cautioning finger.

“Only after you give me the book.”

“Done. Let’s set up a promo shoot for next Saturday.”

“One other thing.”

“Yes?”

“Take the stupid heels off Temerity’s boots. Bruce can’t stand wearing the real things, and neither would anyone else.”

Akira clicked his fingers, bobbing his head from side to side.

“I love it when you protect the sisterhood!”

He went to a locked cabinet where a UV lamp shone on a lectern. How that was supposed to preserve the book was anybody’s guess, but he opened the glass and retrieved it. Passed it to her. The leather felt unpleasant in her hands, cold and hot at the same time. If Argana had latent psychic powers at all, then the emphasis was strictly on the ‘latent’.  But even so, she could sense its energy.

“Thanks!” She beamed, wild-eyed.

“You can keep the other one, too.” Akira pointed at his unauthorised autobiography.

“Er, thanks.”

Tucking both books into her backpack, she called Max to her and made her way out. Bruce opened the door for her, tugging the hem of his dress down.

“Bruce!” Akira yelled from down the corridor. “Stand down, man. You can take that Temerity nonsense off after all.”

He blew his cheeks out.

“Not a moment too soon.” He took the heels off at once. Throwing them aside, he massaged his heel arches with his thumbs.

“You’re welcome,” trilled Argana, making her way back to her car.

That evening, Argana was back at Melvyn’s place. She’d got a cup of tea, some stew on the hob, and had settled down to read The Illuminated Book of Darkness.

Each section started with a delightfully oversized capital letter, hand painted in a block of lurid colours. Lovely. Beyond that, things got complicated. There were gaps on the pages, blocks of text just missing. Runes and sigils were likewise interrupted, as if patches of ink had simply dropped from the paper. Even the words that she could see didn’t belong to any language she knew, made up of unknown symbols. Resigning herself to a long evening, she started making a record of the alphabet.

Worst case scenario - albeit the most exciting - would be a genuine unknown script. But if it was a cipher for an existing alphabet, then figuring how many symbols there were would be a good start in working out which one. She’d found fifteen variants of the strange squiggles when Melvyn stopped what he was doing and came over.

“You keep sighing,” he observed. “Are you alright?”

“It’s this.”

He reached past her, picking up the book and turning it over in his hands. He sniffed the spine.

“Nice prop.”

“It’s genuine.”

“Get out! This is the one I bid on? What are you doing with it?” He skipped around the room with glee and a dash of envy, waving the book at the ceiling. Max hopped up from his dog bed and followed him excitedly, hoping that some action was in the offing.

“Hey, give that back! What do you even know about occult literature anyway?”

Melvyn scoffed, bowing to her.

“Like, everything. It’s a major area of inspiration for us bizarre magicians. The book of Thoth. The Goetia. Book of Fate. Liber Null and Psych-out…”

Argana made sweeping gestures with her hand.

“Yes, yes, I get it. But this is annoying the spiggles out of me. Look at it, half the thing’s missing!”

Melvyn finally opened it. Squinted it at, then passed it back.

“Still, at least the illumination is good,” he said.

“That doesn’t help if I can’t read it!”

He peered at her notebook, and her scrawled symbols.

“You think it’s a cipher?”

“It could be. I feel like there’s more than 26 of these characters though, which rules out the Latin alphabet.”

“Unless it’s got capitals. Then there’s 52!”

“I was happier before you were helping!” she yelped.

Melvyn leant his hands on the table.

“Is it yours? If I help you, can I borrow it?”

“If you help me, you can have it!”

Returning to his workbench, he broke out a screwdriver and started disassembling the disappearing box trick. Which was odd, because Argana was sure that minutes earlier, he’d been putting the thing together.

Meanwhile, she found some more symbols. Whatever this character set was, it was going to be a serious pain for any dyslexic cultists. The more glyphs she found, the more of them turned out to be mirror images of each other.

In fact, every character had a mirror image character, reflected left-to-right. What’s more, half of the characters only appeared on left hand pages, and the others only on the right.

“Hey Melv, I think I’m onto something. Half the pages are mirrored!”

He came swiftly back, enthusiasm lighting his face, carrying something with him.

“I was just thinking that myself.”

“You never were!”

“No, then how come I brought this?”

He produced a piece of mirrored glass the size of a paperback, silvered on one side and dark on the other. It had been removed from the contraption he was building.

She stuck her tongue out.

“Lucky guess.”

They held the book flat between them, open on the first pair of opposed pages. The pages weren’t mirror images of each other. The most obvious indication of this was the illuminated capital letter, from which the book got its name, taking pride of place on the left hand page. It had no counterpart on the right. The other indicator was the gaps in the text, which were in different places. But the areas of gaps on one side matched the areas of text on the other.

Using her free hand, she took the mirror from him. Tilted the right way, she could see through it as well as seeing the reflection of the other page.

She adjusted the mirror, closing one eye as she lined it up. Melvyn crowded against her, trying to see what was happening. But it was definitely a one-viewpoint-at-a-time situation.

It was worth it. With the see through mirror at exactly the right angle, she saw one page superimposed and reversed over the other. Between the two of them, they made a complete text.

“Look!” she yelped triumphantly.

Melvyn nodded in appreciation. “That’s a nice trick. I could do something with that.”

“I’ve still got to figure this cipher out.”

“I’ve got an app for that.”

She stared at him.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Obviously neither of them noticed the stew burning, not that Max barked to alert them. He got the better part of that accident, as they let him lick out the pan once they’d chucked the worst of it. It was going to be another takeaway night. By that point, two hours of frantic scanning and scribbling had passed. That rewarded them with the gist of the work.

The Illuminated Book of Darkness claimed to be an English language translation of a book originally written by Coptic Egyptians two millennia ago. The translation itself was over three centuries old. Naturally, the two friends differed in their assessment of its usefulness. He wanted it in his book hoard to impress his peers and audiences. Whereas Argana had in mind more direct applications.

“There’s binding patterns here for aquatic demons,” she told him. “That’d be Balor-El, wouldn’t it? King of the Fomorian fish demons. Sounds aquatic to me.”

“You’re still on about that bloke Berkshire caught burning Casa Du Scholes to the ground? For once, can’t you just leave your fantasies out of it? It’s got nothing to do with this book. That perp was jacked up on amphetamines, I expect.”

“Yeah? Well, I’ve seen the unredacted police report, and it says he was nine feet tall with one eye.”

Melvyn laughed.

“One eye? So, the police tasered an unarmed, partially sighted man? Nice. Come to Trotterwell, see the violence in the system!”

She scowled, not liking to hear Berkshire put down.

“He wasn’t unarmed!”

“No? What weapon did he have?”

“He… ok. But he’s well dangerous, no matter what you say. And nine feet tall. You heard that bit, right?”

Melvyn shrugged

“I’ve seen American Wrestlers. It’s all done with steroids.”

“Just go and put your box back together.” She handed him the mirror.

Turning her attention back to the book, she started copying out the instructions for the most potent binding runes. First she’d cut a rectangular piece of parchment about fifteen by eight centimetres, a size suitable for labelling a jam jar. When she was done marking it up, she found a suitable jar from among of Melvyn’s collection and affixed it. The thing about semi-corporeal entities, she reasoned, is that once you’d bound one, you could put it in anything.

The banks of the Derwent

The quad bike rattled on the rutted track, its engine complaining loudly. It got a better deal than the trailer it was pulling, at least it had suspension. Judith Keppler, half standing, was grateful for both. She was taking a couple of bales out to the north field. Recent rain had turned the footpaths to mud, she planned to put the straw down to prevent them from getting any worse.

It was good work. It kept her outside and busy, in the elements. She followed the track down by the river. It was slow and lazy here, thirty metres across. Muddy banks were capped by weeping willows and elders. Further back, privet hedges had gone wild, becoming ragged trees tipped with white flowers. She knew every turn of this river for five miles north and south of the town, recognised every tree. For thirty years she’d experienced the passing seasons, witnessing the plants and wildlife in their ebb and flow.

Around the next bend was an island in the middle of the river. It had shifted gradually in the time she’d known it, eroded by summer floods along one edge, built up along the other by detritus swept down from the hills. It was held in place by optimistic trees, their leaves hanging over the water, their roots exposed where time had undercut the bank.

She set her mouth to a thin line and eased back on the throttle, spotting something. A line of crushed grass leading to the bank on her side of the river. Foot prints in the mud of a small inlet. Five years ago, there’d been troublemakers at this spot, going onto the island trying to catch ducks. What they wanted with them, she’d never found out. They’d fled before she could ask. After she’d broken their leader’s nose in a fist fight, that was.

She brought the quad to a halt, braking carefully so as to avoid jack-knifing the trailer. In the trees on the island, someone moved. Could be innocent, an adventurous rambler or a wildlife researcher, she told herself. But still, her knuckles itched. Something felt wrong.

“Hello?” she called out, throwing her lungs into the shout. It was not like she had the element of surprise. The two stroke rattle of the quad’s engine had seen to that.

Someone moved in response, a shadow shifting between the trees. The island was otherwise quiet. No sign of the duck clan that normally lived in its shelter.

“Hey, I’m talking to you!” she yelled.

Leaving the quad, she walked down to the water’s edge. She glanced at the churned mud. You could tell a lot about people from their footprints. Size, weight, how fast they were travelling. The type of footwear. Trainers, walking boots and wellingtons all told their own story. But this - this was something else. A shiver ran down her spine, shaking her confidence as it went.

The footprints were enormous, twice the size of even a large man's. Unshod. Three-toed, with claws like trowels, from the mark.

Involuntarily, she stepped back, raising her eyes hesitatingly to the island.

The monster had moved into the open, a barbarous caricature of a human. Enormous and terrifying, far too real in the dappled light of the copse, its ugly head like a rotting tree stump. Its single, all-encompassing eye fixed on her, worlds of malice and decay swirling within it. It had seen her and knew that she’d seen it. It had been watching from the start.

“Hey-” she started.

The monster roared.

Judith, scourge of thieves and poachers, volunteer firefighter and judo blackbelt, fell on her arse.

She was crawling backward like a startled spider before she got her limbs under control. Coming to a crouch she fixed it with a stare. “Get it together, Jude. You can do this,” she told herself. She blew her cheeks out, standing to her feet.

“You can’t cross running water can you, you ugly basket? I don’t fear you.”

The monster swayed, then crashed back through the trees, snapping branches off as it went.

As Judith returned to her quadbike, she found her hands were shaking. It took her two attempts to undo the catch of the vehicle’s side compartment. That’s where her phone was. The creature was without doubt the demon that Fred had fought on the council estate, and he needed to know.

But before she rang anyone, she was going to put a bit of distance between herself and the island.

Get in the jar

The closest Argana Zeit could get her car to the island in the river was a couple of fields away, where she bumped it onto the verge. The narrow tires dug ruts through the thick grass. Judith had contacted Berkshire. And Berkshire, busy checking the ear tags of pigs in Darley Dale, had passed the details on to her. And anyway, eldritch horrors were her jam. If he could discorporate the thing then, dammit, she could boot it kicking and screaming back into the void. From where they’d stopped, the island was no more than a raft in a silver thread, tufted with willow trees.

They got out of the car.

“Ok Balor,” she said to herself. “This time we’re prepared.”

From the car boot she got her backpack, containing runes and a jam jar, and a bulky Victorian coat. The last was part of Melvyn’s collection, and he’d lent it to her to see if it worked.

She had to climb a couple of fences to get closer to the Derwent River. They posed no barrier to Max, however, who simply squeezed under them, picking up seeds in his fur as he went. Then it was easy going through the fields, hard going through the bramble hedges that divided them, all the way down to the river.

There a footpath ran along the edge, mocking her for not having found a better way down to it. Just before the island where the path widened, the edge dipped down the bank to form a pebbly inlet. Whether this was a favoured fishing spot, or the starting point for teenage adventures onto the island, she couldn’t tell.

At her side, Max had become unusually silent, watching the island tensely. She followed his gaze. The island was long enough to fit about a dozen fully grown willow trees and was separated from her by fifteen metres of fast flowing river. Its nearest edge, where it dipped to the water, was a mass of tangled undergrowth, all nettles and wild roses. And there, glimpsed through a gap in the branches, a figure that chilled her to her core.

Feeling around in her backpack so that she wouldn’t have to take her eyes of the creature, she tugged free her opera glasses. Swallowing her nerves, she lifted them to her face for a better look. One terrible eye blinked in the centre of a face like a newt had swallowed a bag of breezeblocks. The orb was the size of a dinner plate, with competing and shifting hues of glittering topaz and pond scum green orbiting a pupil like the heart of a dying sun. It blinked again, thick lashes like dark feathers sweeping across it. There was nothing else the creature could be than Balor-El. He glanced her way, and she froze, tearing her gaze away as if he could track it back to her.

Which is when she took in other details. It was hard to see through the intervening branches, but his lower body seemed to be wrapped in something. A cocoon. His arms were free, but the whole rest of him was trussed, cables of silk as thick as chafer grubs fastening him to the willows. And that single eye, still scanning the riverbank.

There was no point trying to hide.

“Hey!” she called out.

Silence, but he didn’t stop watching her.

“We’re going to have to get over there,” she told Max, who whined.

Keeping an eye on the demon, she sidestepped until she found a point on the narrow shore where he didn’t have direct line of sight to her. Only then did she dare tear her gaze away. Working quickly, she pulled the Victorian coat from her backpack. A prop that Melvyn was particularly proud of, a replica 1849 boat coat. It was fair to say the idea had never caught on, but a 19th century inventor had patented the idea of a coat with a rubber lining that could be inflated to cross small streams. For the gentleman adventurer, galivanting upon his lands. She’d brought a balloon pump with her and put it to work.

“Let’s hope we don’t ruin it, eh?” she said. Max responded by putting his head on one side. “You know, like, get it sliced up. Demons are all about that shnickety-snip,” she clarified.

The tweed unfurled and expanded gracefully, the front end bobbing against the lapping waves. It looked like the kind of dingy you’d get if you skinned a country squire to make it.

The walking cane meant to become the oar had been too ungainly to bring with, so she’d left it in the car. In its absence, she rolled up her orange sleeves as far as her elbows, ready to paddle. With one motion she launched the tiny coracle and knelt into it. It wobbled terrifyingly, clutching an involuntary scream from her as she threw out her arms for balance.

“Hup boy, come in!” she exclaimed once she’d steadied, patting what little space there was with her free hand as soon as she was sure she wasn’t capsizing.

But Max ignored her, diving into the water with a splash that drenched her. So much for staying dry. Even in summer, the water was still cold enough to startle.

At college, she’d been on the rowing team, but that had involved oars, team mates and, most importantly, a vehicle with a keel. It was all she could do not to be swept away in the current. She didn’t get a chance to look up until she reached the shore, grasping a fistful of nettles in her attempt to land the boat. Then she found that Balor-El, still suspended in his cocoon, was watching her struggle. There was a slash across his face that might have been a mouth. If it was, that twitching at the corners meant he was laughing at her.

Max scrambled up out of the mud near enough that when he shook himself dry, he also shook her wet.

“Hey!” she grumbled.

He barked.

“Come on, you drenched me, hound, not cool!”

He barked again more insistently, nose pointing downstream.

“Oh.”

Left unsecured, the boat-coat had slipped away from the end of the island and was spiralling into the distance.

Balling her fists, she strode toward the centre of the island. It was elongated, a silting in the middle of the river that had graduated to the status of a landmass over centuries, secured first by reeds and then by a succession of ever larger trees. Although the landing had been frantic, once she was through the outer vegetation she found the ground beneath the willows largely cleared. Some of it tramped by unofficial visitors, judging by the drinks cans and abandoned barbeques. More paths still by geese, ducks, or whatever else called the place home in more peaceful times.

Balor-El watched her, suspended above the ground. The entangled cylinder that covered his lower body pulsed, flashes of light illuminating it from within. He was forming wings, if she read the shapes pressed against the inside right.

“You came here… of you own free will?” he asked.

“Who else’s will would I have come by?”

“Good, good. What do you want, Daughter of Eve?”

Argana rolled her eyes, planting her hand on one hip. “You can drop that cod-biblical nonsense. I know you’re not really a demon, you’re just faking it.”

“Old habits,” he growled, apparently amused. “What do you think I am?”

“You were once lord of the —” she dropped her voice, as if being overheard could harm her, “lord of the Fomorians. But you were mightier then. Because you’re just a fragment of that now. Balor-El. The El is Welsh, isn’t it? A diminutive. Like if we called you Balorski, or Balorito, or Lil’ Bee.”

“What of it?”

She stayed well back, out of easy reach if the monster broke free, Max half hiding behind her leg,

“I don’t know what you were doing for the two millennia since the Fomorian war, I don’t need to. But come the 1800s, you were going toe to toe - or toe to cloven hoof - with the gentle folk. And they were going toe to toe - or toe to sandal - with the Catholics. And probably every other beggar with a book and a religion, too.”

“I’m enjoying this. It’s not often that someone comes and tells me my own story.”

He’s playing for time, she thought. Which meant she could keep him talking, but for a price, and it wasn’t obvious yet what that price would be.

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Is it possible you were working with the Catholics? A demon on the side of the angels, right up until they kissed and made up with the fae.”

Balor-El shook his great head sadly. “They should have let me kill them all.”

“And then…” she paused, summoning the courage to go on, afraid of angering him, “…they banished you. Or bound you.”

“Close enough.”

“But you got free, didn’t you? A while ago, and somehow connected to that book Akira got at auction. I’m thinking maybe that was the eighties or thereabouts. MacGillycuddy-”

Balor-El didn’t yell. He didn’t have to. That liquid, mesmerising eye flashed darkly, revealing for an instant a depth of hatred that was like staring into the dankest corner of hell. Argana stumbled backward. Max fled into the trees, watching trembling from behind the broadest willow.

“MacGillycuddy…” she continued shakily.

“I only wish to hear that name again if it is on the lips of his friends and lovers, upon the day that I tear his head from his ruined body!”

“Uh, got it,” she said, wiping at her forehead with her sleeve. His foul smelling spittle had got everywhere.

“I am bored of this, insect,” he growled. As he did so, he reached one powerful arm around, and tore a strip of the cocoon free. Fresh ichor dripped from the opening.

“Er, careful, I mean, it looks like you’re halfway through some kind of transformation there…”

“I’ll transform you! Into a skin sack full of broken bones and pulverised organs!”

“Four out of ten. Could have been snappier.” Argana involuntarily backed up, her heel running into a stout tree. She was dimly away of Max’s frantic whining.

She fumbled in her backpack, talking ever faster. “I didn’t answer your question, did I? How rude. I’m here because I want to banish you.”

The first thing she found was the jar. She yanked the lid off, tucked it into her back pocket, then rolled the body of the jar hastily toward him. It came to a halt directly under his blocky head.

He tore his other arm free, ribbons of silk arcing in the air. More ichor spattered. It burned the bark off the trees where it touched them. She was working too, fetching her list of three runes she’d copied from the book. She grasped the paper in her right hand.

“First rune!” she declared. Taking a step closer, she raised her left hand, her good hand, into the air. Traced the shape of the rune.

The monster flinched. There was a burst of light. She threw up her arm instinctively. When she lowered it, she saw the rune burned into Balor-El’s fridge-sized chest, twenty centimetres across and glowing. Judging from the smoke, it probably did. Strands of silk tore as he struggled to break free.

“Second rune!” she bellowed, marking it in the air.

This one burned itself into his shoulder. He quivered, huge arms working to rid himself of the cocoon. To be able to charge her down, to make good on his grisly promises.

“Third rune!” she howled, so loud that her throat hurt. A wind had come from nowhere, beating at her, snapping twigs and branches from the willows and hurling them into the sky.

Balor-El’s mouth opened wider than should be possible, bellowing. “Why did you - I hate you!”

He left Argana’s ears ringing. And then, the space that contained him exploded. A blast wave hurled her off her feet, slamming into the willow behind her. It tore up brambles and gouged the earth. Branches cracked and fell into the river. Argana slid to the ground, winded and fighting for breath.

All at once, the air changed direction and rushed inward. The implosion sucked her hair in front of her face. A snapped branch collided painfully with her elbow on the way back in. A second branch hit her in the back of her head, knocking her onto her front. She could taste dirt in her mouth.

Dizzy and seeing stars, it took all her effort to prop herself onto her elbows far enough to see what had happened.

It was working.

Streaks of daylight stabbed in around Balor-El. Blue light crackled over his surface as he folded into an ever smaller space, turning sideways into another dimension. As he shrank, the jar pulled him in. And then he was trapped in it, his deformed body pressing against the inside of the glass. His baleful eye, now the size of a ping pong ball, glared at her. The glare promised vengeance.

“Max,” she whispered painfully, still unable to suck the air back into her lungs.

His reassuring presence pressed into her side, though there were twigs and amphibians in his fur and he smelt of swamp water.

The jam jar toppled over onto its side. Like a hermit crab, Balor-El extended one clawed arm. It was only ten centimetres long, but the strength was enormous. It dug through the earth until it found a tree root to hang on to.

Max pushed his back under Argana’s right shoulder and heaved. She got up onto all fours, panting for breath. Her vision swam, black curtains flickering at the edges.

Balor-El upended the jar his shrunken self was trapped in, trying to shake himself loose. It was, presumably, difficult to squeeze five hundred kilos of demon through an aperture eight centimetres across, but he was determined.

Frantically, she crawled forward in slow motion, unable to catch her breath well enough to go faster.

The demon got his other hand out, his scaly fingers curling around the lip of the jar. Ready to lever himself the rest of the way.

She reached him. The jar was hot when she grabbed it, scalding her hand.

“Stupid child!” he yelled, his voice high and squeaky. “I was leaving anyway!”

“Liar!” she hissed, slamming the lid on the jar.

But was he? He had been trying to grow wings. Did he need them to journey between the stars?

The scrawled sigils on the outside of the jar activated, sealing it shut.

Argana tried to stand up, saw stars, and fell back. She lay spreadeagled for many minutes, just getting her breath back. Max pressed his cold nose into her neck, then lay down next to her.

She smiled. It wasn’t every day that you captured a demon in a jam jar.

The Green Dragon

By early afternoon Argana had been home, dressed her cuts and bruises, showered, and fed Max celebratory bits of cheese. Then she’d called Berkshire, told him the good news that she’d captured the demon, and invited him down to the Green Dragon. Which is where she was. A creaking, timber-framed building that had been a public house since the days that Trotterwell was just a stop on a drover’s route, and it had no intention of changing now, thank you. It was cosy inside, dark stained wood, warm lights, cushioned benches.

She smiled at Berkshire, sat across from her in the alcove. He looked strange out of uniform, wearing a short sleeved burgundy shirt over dark trousers. But being off duty had its advantages, as the pint of beer in front of him attested. Argana had got herself one too, a pleasing amber-orange liquid in a glass mug. Max had wandered off, first to slurp from the steel bowl in front of the bar, and then to shake down strangers for head rubs.

Berkshire grinned.

“So, took a little more than a taser in the end, huh?”

Argana laughed, punching him on the arm.

“You can’t help it if the Force won’t give you the proper tools. I used runes. It was brilliant. I was brilliant.”

He leaned in.

“Can I see?”

She looked around guiltily, then took the jam jar from her backpack, setting it on the table between them. The contents, murky with sparkles, had sedimented into narrow seams of differing blacks.

“It looks inert…” Berkshire said, reaching for it. She slapped his hand away.

“Don’t touch it. It should be safe, but…” she shrugged.

The main door swung open, admitting a flash of red velvet. Melvyn Drake, making his way to the bar, a bundle of papers under his arm. He hadn’t seen them. Argana swept the jar from sight, putting it down on the seat next to her. She swung her feet off the footrest and swaggered towards him. “Hey Melv, guess who just banished a major demon lord by herself? This rocking chick, that’s who.  Come over and join us.”

He did just that, after collecting a daiquiri from the bar.

“Does it pay the rent?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” Argana smiled sweetly at Berkshire. “Does it, Berk?”

“I’ll say. Demon lord down. We’ve just got to find a way to wake those kids up now.”

“So, you like, all play this game?” asked Melvyn, bemused.

Argana tipped her head on one side.

“What? No, Berk doesn’t have the thumbs for Dino Rampage.”

“And doesn’t have a suitably juvenile mindset, either,” added Berkshire, whose gaming days had ended in his teens.

“But this whole thing,” insisted Melvyn, “your demon lords and the like, it’s just some wide game isn’t it? Dorks and Dragons? Scavenger hunt sort of thing.”

Argana put her drink down.

“No, it’s real!”

“Still pushing that line, huh? Take it from me, nothing’s ever what it’s seems.”

“Yes because you’re the great magician,” she said, making air quotes with her fingers.

He put his papers down on the table, along with a jar of his own, half filled with grey powder.

“Not great. Magnificent. And do you know what? I’m celebrating too. I demo-ed my mirror trick today, I’ve got a buyer for it.”

“That was quick.”

“Yes, that’s why I’m drinking a mocktail.”

“Nice one buddy.” Berkshire clinked his pint against Melvyn’s glass, causing the smaller man to grin shyly. “What’s in the jar?”

“Oh, that’s for a different trick. I’m performing tonight, at the Hathersage Memorial. It’s mostly an older audience. This is for like a genie thing.” He shook the jar, and the powder within it turned into swirling black-grey smoke. “It’s harmless, but if I took the top off, it’d look like it’s burning up. I transfer it to an oil lamp as part of the act.”

“Oh, so a back to front Genie thing.”

“Yeah, you got it,” he nodded, putting the jar down beside him.

“Well, it was nice of you to come and hang with us.”

Melvyn laughed.

“I didn’t actually know you were here, I’m meeting someone.”

“Oh, it’s a date!” exclaimed Argana. “And you picked an afternoon when you’ve got to rush off and do something! …So, it’s a first date?”

Melvyn looked down at the table, hiding his embarrassment.

“Knock ‘em out, champ,” Berkshire clapped him on the shoulder.

“Do you know what they look like?” Argana asked him.

“People never look quite like their internet images. He said he’d be wearing a yellow hat, though.”

“Like that guy?”

Melvyn followed her gaze to a lean fellow with a flat cap and a fine waistcoat. He was leaning against the sill of the bay window halfway down the bar, nursing a drink. A masterclass in studied nonchalance.

“That’ll be him.”

“Good luck.” Argana squeezed his hand.

Without taking his eyes off the man, Melvyn swept his belongings back into his tote bag. Picking up his drink, he headed over.

Argana turned back to Berkshire, picking up her drink.  “Just you and me then, moustache boy.”

“Well, actually…” he paused apologetically, his eyes going to the door.

Judith came in, giving him a big smile. She had a smile for Max too, and a nod for Argana.

“Good to go, Freddie?”

Argana looked between them, feeling miffed.

“What’s going on?”

“I said I’d give Judith a hand shifting some pigs.”

“I took Balor down! That’s worth celebrating, isn’t it? I mean, pigs? You’ve got to think of something better to do with your spare time.”

Judith gave her an appraising look.

“I guess we could stop for a pint, before we go.”

“Don’t bother on my account.” Argana chugged slightly too much of her beer at once, so that it sloshed onto her nose. She ignored it. “I guess I’m celebrating alone, then.”

“Don’t be silly. We’ll stick around.”

“I don’t need your charity. Go rustle pigs.”

“Argana, come on, it’s ok,” said Berkshire, his hands pleading.” You’re fresh off a battle with a demon. We understand.”

“I know who’ll be happy for me,” she announced. “MacGillycuddy. I should go tell him the good news!”

She drowned the rest of the pint, scooped up her trophy demon, and headed out.

Never meet your heroes

Argana found MacGillycuddy in the garden of the cottage the church had loaned him for the duration. Sitting at a wooden table with a mug in one hand, surrounded by knee deep grass and fading wild flowers, he looked altogether peaceful.

“Father MacGee!” she called out loudly as she rounded the corner and let herself in through the low picket fence. Max followed her, eager to investigate the flower beds.

He shuddered visibly but, to his credit, didn’t spill whatever he was drinking.

“Argana. Pull up a pew. It’s a bit early, isn’t it? I haven’t finished my first tea yet.”

“How many do you have?” she asked, disapprovingly, as she hauled a second chair over. It hadn’t been moved for some time and she had to fight climbing weeds for it.

“Three, since I gave up smoking,” he grunted. “Stove’s on though, you want one?”

“Yes please.”

He jabbed his thumb at the wooden door of the cottage.

“I’m sure you can find it, love.”

She scowled.

“I don’t even know what you’re still doing here,” she said. “I’ve already done your job for you!”

“What, brought all the little lambs back to the fold?”

“No, you crinkly old idiot, not that job. I’ve taken out the demon. Balor-El. Bit of a push over.”

MacGillycuddy carefully placed his black tea down on the table in front of him. It was a surprisingly sombre motion.

She waggled a finger, warming to her triumph. “You thought he was too much for me, you were all like ‘Arganah, yeh messing wiv fings yed don’ understant’ well, now, I’m all like, 'in your face, Grandad, I took him down.'”

Clearly, there was something wrong with her gloating technique. And it wasn’t just the bad impression of his accent. She wanted to him to be impressed, surprised, maybe a little jealous that she’d beaten him to the punch. But MacGillycuddy’s face was tap dancing its way through an array of other emotions. Shock, yes, but then disappointment, weariness and finally a sort of grim humour that twitched at the corners of his mouth without adding any warmth to it.

“I did it!” she emphasised, hanging onto the thin possibility he just wasn’t getting the message.

“What. Exactly. Did. You. Do?”

“I used three runes to break the bindings on his form so that I could force him into a jar. I didn’t have the magic to push him from this world, but once he figures out he can’t get out of the jar, he’ll leave of his own accord.”

MacGillycuddy coughed to disguise a bitter laugh.

“Do you know what Balor-El is?”

“He says he’s a fish demon, one of the ancient Fomor, but I don’t believe him. For one thing, I don’t believe in demons, only things pretending to be demons.”

“You’re half right. He was here, in the primordial times, welding monsters out of the flesh of the first fish to stumble upon the land, during the long war with the Tuatha. Before there were people, like. Many of the Fomor were destroyed. Some were driven back to the stars they came from. Others trapped asleep for long ages in rocks and rivers. “

“Well, now he’s awake, he can beggar off back to the stars, can’t he?”

MacGillycuddy held up a hand, urging her to let him finish.

“It was coal miners in Monmouthshire that found him in the 1500s. They had the good sense not to wake him up. But they got the church in.”

“And when you say the church, you mean the Paragnostica?”

“This was in the days before the settlement. You’ve no idea what the stakes were. I’m going to need your word now, Argana, that you’re not going to tell a soul what I’m gonna tell you now.”

She looked into his eyes, grey as frost-in-moonlight, seeing the steel in them.

“Cross my heart and hope to diet.”

He grunted, accepting the frivolity as her defence mechanism.

“We placed bindings on Balor-El. Three bindings. We bound him to his shape, so that he would be almost man-sized, the meekest of the many Fomorian avatars he had taken over millennia. We bound him to this Earth, so that we could make use of him. And lastly, we bound him to our service as a soldier against the fae.”

“You’re telling me - you’re actually telling me that the church made a deal with the devil?” Eat your heart out, Faust.”

“So to speak. As you said yourself, he wasn’t really the, or even a, devil. We’ve made better decisions, to be fair.”

“Ah, the Pope’s not infallible then!”

“If you think the Pope had anything to do with this, you’re more gullible than I thought.”

Argana folded her arms.

“And now you’re all riled up that I dispatched your favourite soldier. He’d gone rogue, can’t you see that?”

MacGillycuddy snorted.

“We didn’t treat Balor-El well over the years. Well, who cares, his kind think nothing of enslaving and torturing entire species. After the accord, the Paragno- the Church retired him. He returned to his slumber, this time in a lead-lined box buried under Coventry Cathedral.”

He took a sip of his tea and carried on. “It takes a great deal of magical energy to banish a creature like that. I doubt the whole believership of the planet could achieve it. So, no, he needs to be cajoled into leaving. Lacking the means, the Church put him to sleep. The centuries passed, and the Second World War came. The tomb was damaged and, little by tiny little, the outside world seeped in to wake him. It took decades, but in 1983, he rose.”

“1983? What’s he been doing in the meantime? Collecting fish?”

“The Paragnostica put him down again. He should have stayed down, but he didn’t, and we don’t know what woke him this time.”

“I’ve, um, I’ve sorted him out now…”

“Unless you’ve got more magical ability than I give you credit for, you haven’t. You said runes. Where, exactly, did you find these runes?”

“They were in a book…” her voice faltered. Akira had won it an auction. The lot had been from Liverpool, hadn’t it? Something cold clenched inside her, making it hard to get the words out. “The Illuminated Book of Darkness,”

The exorcist’s eyes bugged for a moment, before he slammed a gnarled hand on the table.

“God’s teeth! You broke the bindings on that thing? You broke our bindings. The ones that hold it to the Earth, to the Church, to a crusade against the fae.”

She sat still, wide eyed, momentarily frozen by his anger. He surged up from his chair, unable to contain himself. Pacing with rage. “That was my book. I was there when we bound him. Four decades…” he trailed off.

She swallowed.

“Well, uh, I put him in a jar…”

“He’s playing with you Argana. That’s never going to hold him. And thanks to you, he can freely resume his true form and the Paragnostica no longer have any control over him!”

She bristled.

“And you were going to what, just ask him politely to leave?

“Mother of God, yes, damn it! That was exactly what I was going to do!”

MacGillycuddy swallowed the rest of his drink in one chug and stomped angrily into the cottage, ducking to avoid his clouting his head on the lintel. She followed him. It wasn’t a big place, a single sitting-room-cum-kitchen downstairs, offshot bathroom, a wooden ladder to a first floor bedroom. A coffee pot sat on a coal powered stove.

Pushing the wicker sofa out of the way, MacGillycuddy retrieved his suitcase from behind it, clicking it open. Argana watched aghast as he pulled out a scroll of parchment, opened the stove door, and shoved the paper inside.

“No!” she yelled, grabbing hold of his wrist to try and stop him. He pushed her aside. “What did you do that for?”

He said nothing, moving away to start collecting his possessions together.

In the stove, the paper was curling and blackening, the tube already blazing at one end. Argana reached her hand in, but withdrew it hastily, beaten back by the heat. She glimpsed enough though. The ancient parchment, with its runes and seals, its illuminated Latin lettering, had to be a record of the Paragnostica’s contract with Balor-El. Perhaps the contract. Which, she had to admit, she had broken.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sombrely. “Can you help me?”

“I came here to enforce an agreement that no longer exists,” growled MacGillycuddy. “Now I’m going to get out of this town before you ground-zero it.”

“Look I- I’ve got another idea! It was brought back by Akira’s Demoncoyn, because he used your book as a seed value, or something. Whoever owns the coin has a claim on Balor, surely? What if -what if I could get hold of that?”

He paused in his packing.

“If you can get the beast’s soul, that’d be something. Then just maybe you could force it back to the Orion Nebula, or wherever the aurochs it came from,” he said, turning his back on her and going up the winding stairs in the corner.

Argana stayed where she was, listening to him clump around the floor above. A cupboard door squeaked on its hinges. A drawer scraped against its runners.

“You still here?” he said, coming back down the ladder one-handed, the other arm clutching a bagful an armful of clothes to deposit in the suitcase.

“What else do I need? When if I get a claim on Balor’s soul, I’ll still need a way to track him...”

“Yeah, you will. Good luck finding it. Lock up the cottage when you’re done. You can give the key to Father Goodie.”

Shutting his suitcase, he hefted it and passed her back into the garden.

“You’re going right now?”

“Yes, back to Liverpool. I’m a busy man. If you find his soul, and a way to corner him, then and only then you can give me a call. If I’m not doing anything else, I’ll come down and help you. Clear?”

Pausing in the gateway at the bottom of the garden, he looked back at her, concerned.

“What did you do with the jar, anyway?”

Now, finally, she had something to show him. Something that might be of value.

“It’s right here.”

She pulled the jam jar from her backpack, placing it on the outdoor table. Darkness swirled within it, disturbed by the motion.

He stopped, dropping the suitcase. He ran back. She’d never seen him run. Max, who’d dozed off, startled awake, diving out of the way.

“There’s still a chance!” he said, eagerly, grasping the jar, and turning it so that the sun shone through it. A scowl formed on his brow.

He dashed it upon the stone pathway, smashing it to pieces. Smoke rose weakly from it, catching in the breeze and dissipating.

She stared at him, mouth open, exclamations of horror colliding with one another in her head.

“That’s a trinket!” He spat. His black coat, worn even on the hottest of days, whirled as he stomped away.

Argana bent, touching one of the larger fragments softly with her fingers. There was no sign of the demon. There was something wrong with the jar, too. It was a slightly different size than she remembered, and, significantly, there were no sigils upon the now useless lid. Was it possible that the demon had purged these details to make his escape?

Another explanation slowly dawned on her. She thought back to the Green Man pub, forcing her mind’s eye to relive the details. Picturing the jar, which she’d shown to Berkshire. Then what had she done? Put it down on the bench next to her. And then Melvyn. Melvyn, with his smoke-filled jar. Had he, too, put his jar on the bench? He’d been there only moments…

She closed her eyes, remembering. Closed them in sudden anguish, too. They’d swapped the jars. Melvyn, poor unbeliever Melvyn, had taken the demon with him. To his performance.

“Oh Gods! I need to ring Melvyn!”

Melvyn's big entrance

Melvyn Drake, known for the afternoon as Melvyn the Magnificent, was about to go on stage at the Hathersage Memorial Hall. A multipurpose building, with a temporary stage borrowed from a local theatre company. It did the job, sturdy boards on a scaffold, a full rig of lights and ropes spanning the ceiling above. They’d even brought all their impromptu scenery, but he’d insisted on the heavy velvet curtain as a backdrop.

The warm up act, a girl who did mind-reading on a unicycle, had finished. The only stage hand had set his table up out front already. All that remained was for him to check that he had the requisite wires, cards and doohickies secreted around his velvet jacket. That and his trolley of props, all present. Top hat, genie lamp, smoke jar. He caught sight of his phone as he ran thought his checks, it having tumbled from his bag when he put it down. It was on silent, but Argana’s profile picture appeared instantly on it, trying to call him. Well, if she’d locked herself out of the flat, there were places she could go until he got back. He’d pick up the message later.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed through the curtain, beaming and waving. Four hundred people smiled back at him, mostly elderly people shipped in by coach. A few he knew. Repeat fans, interested rivals, members of the community. Among them Patrin Royle, a retired magician who’d inspired him as a child. Frail now, the man set in the front row, a blanket over his knees, his white veneers making his face gaunt as he smiled. Patrin gave him an approving nod.

The stagehand, doubling as M.C, announced him.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, gentlefolk, put your hands together for Derbyshire’s very own Melvyn the Magnificent!”

Twenty minutes later, and it was all going rather nicely. The audience had lapped up the mirror box trick, had goggled at the three ropes. Next up was the reverse genie, his personal favourite.

“I’m going to need a volunteer for the audience for this one! Who’s up?”

A dozen hands, mostly in the front row, went up. Patrin’s didn’t, though he shook his in a ‘not for me’ way. It was never good to pick a fellow member of The Circle though, they tried too hard to figure out how it was done.

Melvyn put his hand on the genie lamp, an article he’d found in an antique shop in Castleton. It was a classic oil lamp in tarnished copper, an oval body tapering to an elegant spout. He gave it a gentle, imperceptible shake, knowing that he’d agitate the smoke jar he’d secreted within it.

“You, the young person in the blue top. Yes, you. Come on down. Have you ever had three wishes?”

She was a teenage girl, come to accompany her grandmother, with curly hair and jittery feet. He’d picked her because of her honest, enthusiastic face, and for the fact that for each of his first two tricks, she’d leaned forward for a better look.

“What’s your name, love?”

Was it his imagination, or was the lamp heating up? It had to be the stage lamps. He should have thought of that. He pulled his hand away.

“Emma,” she said, shyly.

“Come up on the stage then, Emma.”

Once she’d come up the stairs, he shook her hand.

“So, I imagine many of you have an idea in your mind of what a genie looks like…”

Something was whistling behind him, like a kettle. The lamp was whistling. It hadn’t when he’d practiced it, but perhaps the reaction was happening faster on account of the heat. He couldn’t turn and look without breaking his patter, so he didn’t.

“Perhaps a dashing middle eastern gentleman, with a sequined waistcoat…”

The door at the back of the hall opened, and someone stepped in. Not surreptitiously, but with the kind of gravitas that made the audience turn and look. A slim man in a yellow three-piece suit, an equally yellow fedora perched on a face like a knife. He flashed a cold smile so bright his teeth could have been stars.

“I believe,” said the newcomer, in a voice like liquid fire dripped in honey, “it is pronounced Djinn. And what you have there, my friend, is not one of those. It is one of mine.”

Melvyn exchanged glances with Patrin, wondering if he’d arranged this interruption, but the old man just shrugged at him.

Nothing left to do but wing it.

“Ah, the man in yellow!” he called out. “And what would your wish be?”

“Do you know, I thought you’d never ask?” The stranger said, walking down the aisle toward him.

Something was wrong. Those people still looking Melvyn’s way, toward the stage, had paled. Hands had gone to faces, eyes round with fear. Somebody screamed. There was a darkness emanating from behind him, and the whistle had become a strange, sickening thrum that wanted to crawl into his chest and throttle him.

I’m having a stroke, thought Melvyn, there’s no other explanation. Centimetre by centimetre he turned his head, straining his peripheral vision for any hint of what was there. The shadows thrashed.

“Run, Emma!” he yelled.

He saw it. Writhing tentacles that spilled out of the lamp, made of darkness, a wave of sentient brambles flecked with ichor and eyeballs in equal measure. They kept pouring into the theatre, pooling under tables and piling up against the walls, stretching to the ceiling like questing roots, all in the time it would take to say 'Darwin’s beard, that thing smells bad!'

A pair of dentures flew past Melvyn, loosened by a scream, as he himself stood in frozen terror.

The fibrous tentacles piled up in the space in front of him, weaving among themselves a form, much vaster than a human, yet almost human shaped.

And in the middle of it, something that might have been a head. A hideous, slab shaped head with a single burning eye.

Melvyn took the only option open to him. He fainted.

When shall we three

It was early morning, and they were crowded into Luciana Cianciolo’s tiny office at the back of the station. It didn’t have the volume of either the break room or the cells that MacGillycuddy had commandeered, but it was tidy, clean and smart in a way that those weren’t. And if Cianciolo believed anything in this world, it was that clutter was a distraction to clear thinking. She’d made some concessions to practicality though, sitting on rather than behind her desk. They’d had to push it against the wall to fit in enough chairs for everyone.

Everyone being Argana Zeit, Fred Berkshire, and Yasmin Nuri. Max, as always at the station, had remained outside. That wasn’t the hardship that it seemed. Argana had every confidence that Moira McPhee, currently on desk duty, would sneak him some morsels from her lunch. Perhaps from the vending machine too.

“It’s like the war council from Fellowship!” said Yasmin, her voice slightly tinny. She wasn’t there in person, unwilling to leave her house for the charm of the inspector’s office. Rather, she was a face on a laptop screen, the computer propped on a box on a chair. “You have my bow,” she added, solemnly.

“And you have my sword,” echoed Argana.

Yasmin’s camera stuttered when she laughed.

“No, you give your axe. Fred gives his sword.”

“Why’s he get to be Aragorn?”

“Because he’s hotter than you, naturally.”

“Axe, though? I don’t want to be that stumpy dwarf.”

“Technically, he’s not stumpy, as the actor was well over-”

“Enough,” hissed Cianciolo, in a voice that could cut supermarket brawls like Moses parting the Red Sea, and regularly did. They stopped bickering. “We have work to do. Over forty people are missing in Hathersage, and a whole lot more are out and talking gibberish to councillors. The event may well be linked to our case.”

“He’s a grumpy old beggar, but I’d be happier if MacGillycuddy was here. Do we know where is?” asked Berkshire.

Argana shrugged, looking at her feet.

“He left, that’s all.”

As for the inspector, she adjusted the monitor that she was sitting next to it until she was reasonably sure everyone could see it.

“Constable, can you tilt the laptop so that Ms Nuri can see this? Yeah? Good. Here’s the footage we got from a drone before it cut out.”

A second screen showed an aerial view of Hathersage. It sat in the lower reaches of the Hope Valley, a patchwork of fields and woodlands below it, and the foothills of Stanage Edge and Higger Tor rising above it. As the drone circled, the closely bunched streets of gritstone houses spun beneath. Argana thought she glimpsed the Little John Inn.

And then it came into view. A perfect black half circle, perched on the town’s eastern edge, like someone had dropped a bowl over a spider. A very black, very big bowl. The nearby streets had been cleared, and ant-sized people could be seen setting up barricades along a half-kilometre perimeter.

“You’re our weird nonsense specialist,” Cianciolo told Argana, “care to make some guesses? Of the informed variety, please.”

Argana leaned closer to the monitor.

“You’re blocking my view!” Yasmin complained from the laptop. She ignored her.

The dome was black. A pure, light-drinking black. Which could be a deficiency in the adaptive range of the drone’s cameras. It was shapeless, like a hole cut in the screen she was watching on. The images fizzed and vanished.

“Where’d it go?”

“That’s all we’ve got,” said Cianciolo plainly. “We lost contact with the drone after that. So, any guesses?”

“Is that the Hathersage Memorial Hall down there?”

“As far as we know. Some people got out, but they have no memory of it.”

Argana put her hands to her face, half covering her mouth.

“Melvyn was there!”

“I’m sorry,” Cianciolo shook her head.

“No, you don’t understand… he, er, he took Balor-El with him.”

Berkshire’s eyebrows pursed.

“Why?”

“There was… he made a mistake. I captured the demon in a sanctified jar. And, um, he picked it up. By accident.”

“So, you’re confirming this is demon related?” asked Cianciolo.

“Well, Balor-El’s not exactly a demon. He had the power to transform his own shape and dimensions. It may be that he has, for his own reasons, affected the dimensionality of the building. You know, put it into a bubble universe.”

Cianciolo held up a ringed finger, cautioning.

“You’re forgetting something, Ms Zeit. We didn’t hire you on to sort out the arsonist, although it’s no surprise to me that you’ve jumped tracks.”

Argana stared at her for a moment, then slapped her hand against her forehead.

“Elmo! The other kids!”

“This is still a who-are-they case,” the policewoman said, “It may be less sexy than hunting a demon arsonist into an impenetrable black globe, but it’s still important.”

Yasmin’s voice crackled on the laptop, her face bobbing as she waved.

“If I could be so bold as to pitch a comment from the cheap seats…”

Berkshire scratched at the back of his head, talking over her.

“I say they’re connected.”

“You would,” Cianciolo said, with a smug laugh. “The Regine dell Fate gave you something. A gift, if I’m not mistaken.”

He nodded slowly.

“That’s right. They said it was reward for having chased Balor-El the first time. So, at the very least, they know about him, and I’m guessing they don’t like him much either.”

“And, Constable Berkshire, have you entered the gift in the ledger? Without proper authorisation, accepting a gift in the line of duty could constitute corruption.”

“Are you serious? Did it look like I had a choice?”

“I’d just like to…” said Yasmin weakly, unable to make herself heard through their rising voices.

“Is it in the book?” Cianciolo insisted.

“No,” he sighed. “Not yet.”

“It wasn’t”, interrupted Argana. “It’s a tag, a curse. They want Berk to be grateful to them for being made their weapon.”

“I… what?” blurted Berkshire.

“They saw you had the guts to go toe-to-toe with Balor-El,” Argana said, letting the admiration creep into her voice. “They knew he wasn’t gone properly, they want you to do it again. They’ve given you the tool to do it. They want you to.”

“I thought it was because I’d done the Scholes a favour,” he said, a bit put out.

“If that was true,” she told him, “they’d be bestowing gifts on that gloating wombat Hardcastle too. She’s the one who’s had them re-homed.”

“We’ll figure out the paperwork later,” said Cianciolo. Then, directing her attention to the laptop, “Miss Nuri, you had a comment?”

Yasmin grinned, leaning closer to her camera.

“Yes! Finally. You’re all noisier than tribbles on heat. I found Elmo. I got a match on the ears. His name’s Daniel Winterman. He lives in Stockport.”

“That’s settled then,” said Cianciolo, dusting her hands.

They stared at her.

“Constable Berkshire, you go find Elmo in Stockport, check that Ms Nuri here matched the right kid. Citizen Zeit, you find the fae. Put the screws on them about this faceless child situation.”

“What about Balor?” Argana asked, itching for the chance to find the demon again and kick it into the next universe properly this time.

The inspector drew in a breath.

“The Morgana Tomorrow Institute is sending a scientist to the dome. We’ll make a decision when we know more.”

“What! I’m your paranormal go-to, I should be there!” complained Argana.

Cianciolo sucked in her lips, knowing she was delivering unwelcome news.

“You were. But you messed that up so badly that our Exorcist left town. So, we’re exploring other options.”

“You’re paying them? I bet I’m cheaper!” Argana scowled. She looked at Berkshire for support, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze.

“I bet you are,” Cianciolo said slyly. “But as it happens, we’re not paying them. They’ve waived their fee in return for the right to commercialise any data they capture.”

“That’s not fair,” Argana muttered.

“Don’t argue. I have things to do. My pig rustler reports won’t write themselves. You both have your orders…”

“But-”

“Yes, you don’t have to follow them, Ms Zeit. But if you don’t, be a dear and leave your contract with Moira on the way out. And don’t come back to my station. I’m not charmed by your loose-cannon chic like everyone else is, ok?”

“Ohh, call the fire brigade,” said Yasmin, still listening from the laptop. “Icepack for Zeit.”

“Why is she like that?” Argana asked through gritted teeth, leaving the station alongside Berkshire.

She missed his reply, no doubt an attempt at mediation, as Max saw her from his waiting place. The dog barrelled happily into her legs, and she bent down to fuss him. “You still love me, don’t you? Who’s a good boy?” He licked her nose.

Berkshire jangled his car keys.

“Now then, where do you think Charlie Peel parked the interceptor?”

“The interceptor? Shame. Being an ice-cream salesman suits you.”

He laughed, walking off down the pavement.

“What about you?” he asked when she caught up.

“I still want to take that demon down. And I promised Akira I’d let Toaster film me do it, if I did.”

“You don’t change your direction easily, do you?”

She laughed.

“That’s because it’s so hard to pick one in the first place. But look, I’ll make an exception. I’ve got an idea where the door to Arcadia is. That unexpected stop in Grindleford tunnel’s got to mean something. I just - er, I want to do a bit of research first.”

“Maybe you can take Toaster there too.”

“Hmmm. Too dangerous.”

“How’d he get the name Toaster, anyway? Because he’s always popping up with a camera?”

Argana made a finger pistol at him.

“Got it in one, Constable. It’s the nickname we gave him when we were kids. He changed it by deed poll when he transitioned.”

“I’ve seen worse names. We caught someone over at Matlock the other day, he’d changed his name to Robert Everything. He said it was an e-sports thing.”

“Was it?”

“No. There were three hundred phones in his flat. All different. Different brands, different covers. And, most importantly, different owners.”

They reached the police car, parked neatly in a space just down from the shops. It beeped at them in response to Berkshire pressing the key.

“Well, this is me. Where next for you?”

“I could do with being back at Melvyn’s. I’m sure you’re still not allowed to give me a lift,” she said. She was resigned to the fact, but she threw in a bit of mock sulkiness for the sake of it.

“I was thinking about that,” he said slyly. “If I had to, say, take a lost dog home, and a member of the public had to help me…” He winked at her.

Catching on, she undid the clasp on Max’s collar, removing it. “Constable, this dog has no identification… do you think it’s lost?”

“Looks lost to me. Do you, by any chance, know where it lives?”

“Why, as it happens, I do.”

“What good luck, perhaps you’d like to accompany me?”

The man from Morgana Tomorrow

Doctor Damola Egbe clutched the door handle reflexively, his dark eyes fixed on the horizon. Huddled in the passenger seat of the car as it sped toward Hathersage. Toward the black globe. The moment the phenomenon had appeared, the Morgana Tomorrow Institute had taken an interest. His colleagues had argued over who was most suitable to go, and when they couldn’t settle it, they’d played dice for it. Their mistake. In the days before he’d become a parapsychology researcher, he’d specialised in statistics. That’s all it took to win a game of luck. Not courage, not wilfulness, not charismas. Just a firm grasp of the odds.

But now he was excited. He felt the fear, the not knowing. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, know until they got there.

The anomaly had been visible for several miles, intermittently, glimpsed as their car climbed the hill beyond the river crossing. But it wasn’t until he got much closer that Doctor Egbe’s mind let him accept that it was no trick of the light. Trick of the dark would have been more apt. A glimmering black hemisphere, a hundred metres across, hunched over the eastern edge of Hathersage.

His driver, a PhD student named Livvy Miller, took her wide eyes off the road to stare at him.

“You see it too, Prof? What does it look like to you?”

“The kind of blister the universe makes around a naked singularity. The way a body makes pus around a splinter.”

She snorted.

“You’ve got a charming way with poetry, that’s for sure.”

“Watch the road!”

They swerved around a cow that stumbled out of the hedge ahead of them. Gripping the door handle with a white-knuckled hand, Damola watched the animal in the rear-view mirror. It was terrified, moving at a trot. Swiftly more members of its herd joined it, tearing through the edge. They smashed everything in their efforts to escape the darkness, after spending hours working themselves up to their breakout. Swallowing, he looked forward again, alert for any new hazard.

The road dipped briefly, taking them under a stone railway bridge. It hid the anomaly briefly. Speeding out from under that, they found themselves on the edge of town, braking hard onto Station Street. Scores of emergency vehicles blocked them, parked all the way across the road and onto the verges.

Baffled looking firefighters milled by their trucks while the police set up blockades and check points. Paramedics further up the road looked busy. Just before the barriers, the car park of a grandiose care home had been commandeered to load frightened looking people onto coaches.

A police officer waved them down although, with nowhere to go, Livvy was stopping anyway.

He came around to the driver’s side window, which she had obligingly wound down.

“Hello ma’am. The town’s being evacuated. Unless-”

“The Prof here’s the one in charge.” She jabbed a thumb at Damola, who gave the officer a smile. Which wasn’t that easy, given that the wingmirror, door frame, rear view mirror and Livvy’s silhouetted face were all in the way. He straightened his tie, grateful that he’d thought to wear a respectable suit.

Sighing, the officer came around the other side of the car and started again.

“Hello Sir…”

“I’m Doctor Damola Egbe, a scientist from the Morgana Tomorrow Institute.” Damola shook his lanyard demonstratively. “I’m here to see if we can’t figure out what that thing is.”

The man took the lanyard from Damola, spending an uncomfortable span looking between Damola’s face and his image in the ID.

“Never heard of them, Sir,” said the policeman. “We weren’t told to expect scientists.”

“What were you told to expect?”

“Nothing, honestly,” the police man shrugged. “Sightseers, I guess. And we’ve turned plenty of them back. Councillor Hardcastle’s ordered the evacuation of the village. The army’s on its way.”

“Listen, we’re going to park up here, and unload our equipment.”

“You’re going to stay exactly where you are while I check with my superiors,” he said, pointing an emphatic finger at them.

Then he stalked back toward the barriers, muttering urgently into his radio.

Livvy turned her oval face toward Damola. He had a pang of guilt, she looked so young. Students these days seemed barely more than children. What was had he been thinking, asking her to drive him out here? Did she have any idea how dangerous this could be? Did he?

Her face lit up with determination.

“We can’t wait here,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eye. “We’re in the middle of the road!”

Glancing once over her shoulder, she spun the car around, backing into the last unclaimed space in the road. She precisely threaded the narrow gap between a sideroad sign and a telegraph pole.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” he said.

She shook her head.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Further up the road, the policeman who’d stopped them had his back to them, remonstrating with two photographers.

Damola opened the door.

“I think he’s got his hands full.”

Livvy was already at the boot of the car, popping the lid. She started hauling their equipment out, loading it into a folding trolley.

“Then now’s our moment. With you, Prof.”

It was late enough that, even in the northern summer, the sky was turning navy tinged with red. Slow, tumbling clouds glowed with pink underbellies. Damola and Livvy half ran up the street, dragging their freshly packed camping trolleys behind them. Choosing a moment when their original interrogator was occupied, they made it to a different checkpoint, this time crewed by the military. Here a young soldier stopped them, an automatic weapon slung from his shoulder. Egbe’s stomach clenched.

The soldier seemed more nervous than them. He held up a hand.

“Sir, Ma’am…”

“Doctor Damola Egbe. Paranormal Science Specialist. This is my lab tech, Olivia Miller.”

“Doctor?”

Damola waved his ID for the second time.

“And you are?”

“Lance Corporal Andrews. Hold on a second, Sir.”

As the soldier turned back toward the bustle of his platoon, Livvy tugged urgently on Damola’s arm. The original officer was turning and coming their way. He hadn’t seen them. Yet.

“If we could just hurry this up, Andrews-”

“Private Reynolds! Private Chen!” the Lance Corporal bellowed, drowning out the scientist’s plea. “Get your sorry behinds over here!”

The two named soldiers ran over, clad as the first one was in green camouflage and wearing berets. Unlike him, they bore no visible weapons. Damola had no idea what the etiquette for soldiers carrying their guns was. The action figures his mum had tried to interest him in growing up had seemed inseparable from their firearms. Did they need their hands free to hustle him away? Livvy tightened her grip on his arm.

“Lads, this is Doctor Egbe and his assistant. You are to carry their equipment to the front line, you hear?”

Damola sighed, untensing his shoulders. Thanking the Lance Corporal, they pressed on, the two soldiers now lugging their equipment for them.

“Hey! Hey! You, the civilian!”

Damola’s heart leapt, and not in a good way. He ignored the shout, hoping it was not for him, but it came again. They’d got barely ten metres beyond the barrier. It couldn’t be the cop though, as it was a woman’s voice.

Reluctantly, he glanced back.

The woman, in her forties with glossy black hair and a beige raincoat, was immediately recognisable. Madelaine Brouse, a local journalist. She worked the local rags, but today there was a TV van negotiating for a parking place a hundred meters behind her. Lance Corporal Andrews held a polite arm out, preventing her from coming any closer.

“Who are you?” she yelled. “I need an interview!”

“Ask him!” Damola pointed at the corporal, then turned back.

They were at the foot of Oddfellows Road now, lined with beige stone houses with narrow windows. Usually crowded, it was eerily empty, a scattering of abandoned cars only adding to the strangeness. But what drew their attention, of course, was the glistening black hemisphere. It sat a few hundred metres away, swirling against the ground, cutting a simmering orb out of reality. It sliced through hedges and stone walls alike, marking a perfect circle a hundred metres across. Between the last house of the row and the swimming pool beyond it, a whole chunk of reality was just missing.

Livvy whistled through her teeth. The privates, a few steps behind, made the kind of utterances they’d had to go to cadet school to learn.

Damola realised what he was looking at. “It’s completely covered. Hathersage Memorial Hall, it’s in there.”

Overground, underground, trading free

Melvyn’s flat seemed empty without him. It wasn’t, it was full of what he called treasure and everyone else called clutter. It was too much of a reminder that he was missing. Argana would have preferred to put aside the emotion while she worked on a solution. Yasmin had loaned her a laptop, ostensibly to play Dino Rampage on. But finding somewhere to put it was difficult. Ordinarily she would have been comfortable sweeping everything from his upholstered desk but, not knowing if he was alive or dead, that seemed disrespectful. In the end she settled for a telephone box, one of the red ones, that some acquaintance of the magician had put aside in the 90s when they were all being ripped out.

It should have been a blue one really, because it was bigger on the inside than the outside. Some half-finished stage prop, she supposed. The front half was a genuine phone box, the back half a rudimentary assembly of plywood painted black and hidden from the outside by clever use of perspective. No imaginative hexagonal console, though. But it did have a stool in it, room to put her feet up, and a shelf to put the laptop on. Max, uncertain of the confined space, roamed off among the jukeboxes looking for anything plastic and squeaky.

“Right then, Argie,” she said to herself, locking her fingers together and flexing them. “Let’s find us a Demoncoyn.”

When she’d met the Arbuthnots outside the Robin Hood Inn, she’d only known that they were the tourists who’d found the boy Elmo. Now she knew they also possessed the winning Demoncoyn, making them possibly Balor-El’s masters. Finding them was the hard part. It was an uncommon surname, but she could hardly ring up every Arbuthnot in the country and ask them if they owned a demon.

Thinking back to her meeting with them, they’d had a magnetic sign on their car door. For a disco business. It took her three attempts to remember what it was called, and a fourth to spell it right. Terpsichore Disco. She found hits on the internet. First in Spotify and other music streaming services, and then in mentions on the socials of various pubs. It looked like they worked throughout the Midlands, but rarely further afield, and only at weekends. Semi-professional, then. On the second page she found their website. No blog, just an out of focus photo of them on a backroom stage, a ‘Coming soon’ gigs button that did nothing, and the name of the person who’d created the website.

She rang it.

“David Scale, websites and SEO,” said a bored man, his voice thin and scratchy.

“Uh, I’m looking for clients of yours. The Arbuthnots, of Terpsichore Disco. Remember them?”

“Who?”

Argana checked the date on the website.

“You did their site for them two years ago. They’re DJs. It says here they specialise in something called ‘progressive autosound’.”

David laughed, sounding like a toucan with hiccups.

“Ah, them. I told them they should pick a more recognisable genre, for SEO purposes.”

“The gig button’s broken, by the way.”

He snorted.

“They didn’t want to pay for the maintenance contract, that’s on them.”

“Ha, idiots!” said Argana cheerfully, trying to get into the spirit of it. “Have you got contact details for them?”

“Yes, but under GDPR-”

“GDPR, ShmeeDPR! Come on, give a girl a break. I’m a private investigator, and my calling is easily the most interesting thing that’s happened to you all day. Am I right?”

On the other end of the line, David made sucking noises through his teeth.

“Can you prove you’re an investigator?”

“Sure,” she said confidently and read him the number off the back of her student ID card for the Astral University of Tibet.

“Uh, ok. Let me…”

She heard a keyboard tapping. Hoped that he wasn’t checking some online register of PIs, if there even was such a thing.

“Ok, I see you here,” he said at last, clearly bluffing himself. Good, he couldn’t back out now without sounding like an idiot.

“I need their names and contact details,” she told him.

“What, all of them?”

“No, just Jess and… what was his name? The one with the purple hair. Tall, officious looking.”

“I think she is. That’ll be Jess and Rolland.” He proceeded to give her not only their phone numbers and email addresses, but their home address too.

“Thanks, you’re a star! You’ve no idea how much this means to me!”

She stuck her head out of the booth.

“Here Max, we’re on to something! Find one of your squeaky toys, let’s celebrate!”

All Max’s actual squeaky toys - generally ropes or strangely elongated squirrels - had been destroyed in the house fire. But he dug through Melvyn’s open wardrobe and returned with a leather belt. Argana shrugged and took one end of it, waving it in front of him. He feigned twice, then pounce and bit it. Bracing his legs, he pulled backward while she tugged the belt from side to side, shaking his head. While he growled happily, she dialled the Arbuthnots one-handed.

She strolled up and down the central aisle of the flat as she introduced herself, Max still on the end of the belt, knocking over a wastepaper bin as he went.

“So anyway,” she said, one the opening pleasantries were done with, “I was hoping you’d sell me that Demoncoyn.”

“Whatever would you want that for?” Jess Arbuthnot said scornfully. “That crypto is ditched. In fact, I’m on a podcast about it tonight. You know Akira Pixels locked the value? Most exchanges have flat out dropped it.”

“I thought it was £6.66?”

“Oh, sister, you’re living in yesterday. Pixels tried to peg that as the rate, and that’s still the trading value on his site. But the smart contracts mean it has to be sold for less each time, and now the open market value is less than a penny.”

“Cool, I can pay you less than a penny!”

“Why would I do that? The transaction fees would be orders of magnitude higher than the profit!”

Argana paused her striding, flummoxed. “I expect, er, I can order some magnitude…”

“Heaven’s sake. Anyway, I don’t have it anymore. I sold it.”

“I thought you said you couldn’t!”

There was an exasperated sigh on the other end of the line. “Not on the exchanges, no. But you know you can make physical versions of crypto, right? You make a coin, usually with a 3d printer, with a QR code embedded in it that links to the wallet.

“I knew that.”

“Now, you don’t want it to get stolen by some greebo photographing it for the QR, so you make it in two halves, like a clamshell. Now you have a flip-open coin.”

“Cool.”

“So, we printed the coin and sold it on eBay, figuring we’d get more for it as a novelty item.”

“And did you?”

“That’s the odd thing. The bidding went berserk, but it just maxed out, at $6.65, and just wouldn’t go any higher. So, we packed it off. It’s a pain, you know, but sometimes that’s how it goes with crypto.”

Argana stopped pulling Max along and nodded to herself. It was good evidence that, because the coin was cursed, its programming applied in the real as well as the virtual world. They’d sold it for a cent less than they’d bought it for. Max tugged the belt again, experimentally.

“Leave it, I’m done playing,” she told him, but he didn’t let go.

“I’m sorry, what?” asked Jess, still on the other end of the phone.

“Huh? Oh, who did you sell it to?”

“I’d need to check… I’m sorry, who did you say you were?”

Argana gave the belt a particularly vigorous tug, yanking it free of Max’s jaws. She lost her balance, tripping over a swivel chair and pulling a fibreglass chimpanzee - once a charity collection novelty - over on top of herself.

“Oh, for flips sake, get off me, you banana-brained idiot!” She squealed.

“Crackpot,” muttered Jess.

“I didn’t mean you…” Argana trailed off. Jess had hung up.

“Not you either boy,” she added, as Max looked on in alarm. She fussed him as he came over.

Back in the booth, once more perched on the high stool and hunched over the laptop, she started searching the auction sites. There had been several recent sales of Demoncoyns, but only one for exactly $6.65. A user named Urb4nXplora had bought it. Skimming the listing, she found no mention of Balor-El. In fact, no mention of it having summoned a demon at all. The Arbuthnots either hadn’t known, or hadn’t believed it. A shame really, as demon trading stories always made for good songs, and might have inspired a playlist for them.

She googled Urb4nXplora, but it came up blank, it didn’t look like they were using the handle on any other site. They didn’t seem to sell anything either, so didn’t have an info page that she could look at. Frustrated, she fired off a short message.

“Would like to buy rare coin from you.”

Even if they read the unsolicited message, convincing them was going to be a hard sell - or hard buy, as it were - as she would have to offer less than the $6.65 they’d bought it for.

Sighing, she closed the laptop. She looked over at Max, standing hopefully by a half-deflated football. There might be a demon on the loose. There might be faeries stealing children. There might be a the-gods-only-know-what black orb entombing one of her favourite people. All those things could be true, but the dog still needed exercising.

“Walkies,” she said, to his tail-wagging delight.

Some half an hour later, when Max had calmed down a bit and her feet were aching, Argana stopped in at the Crossed Spoons. A cafe and coffee shop under the railway arches. The kind of place where you could get any kind of breakfast you liked, so long as it traditionally came with beans, mushrooms, and plenty of grease. It was one of her favourite thinking places, and unlike the park, had the added benefit of coffee.

And of Hilary, the owner, who managed to be open and friendly without ever asking anything too personal. An attribute that Argana appreciated, having had many bizarre and confidential conversations in there over the years. She opened the door and went in, Max following at her heel.

“Hello, love,” said Hilary from behind their metallic counter. “Egg and spring onion wrap today? It’s the special.”

“Just a coffee thanks, Hil. And water for Max, please.”

While Argana found a corner table to wait at, Hilary put a bowl of water down for Max. He was shortly distracted when a white Pomeranian of his acquaintance arrived, tethered to a bored teenager. The two dogs nuzzled and sniffed around the chair legs.

She left them to it, getting her phone out. Ignoring its low battery warning, she went online, trying to find out more about Urb4nXplora. She poked through the auction site, finding that Urb4nXplora’s recent purchases were public. A mirror with lights all around it. A webcam, one of those active ones, and a harness to attach it to.

Hilary came over, Argana’s coffee mug clinking as they put it down in front of her. Then, with a quick smile, they went back to their counter.

Argana grinned, finding the most telling of Urb4nXplora’s purchases. A paperback copy of How to win friends and influencer people. Well, Urb4nXplora’s aspirations were clear, at least. She scrolled through more purchases. Expansive multi-purpose trainers. Wrist wraps.

There had to be a thousand influencers in a ten-mile radius. She needed a way to narrow it down, having neither the time nor the patience to wade through that many video streams looking for clues. Just as she was ready to give up in frustration, she caught site of another item. A climbers’ chalk bag, leather and hand made. A crude version of Hokusai’s The Great Wave was embroidered on the front.

“A-ha, gotcha!” She copied the picture of the bag and pumped it into a reverse image search.

Max, hearing her voice, looked around. He’d got bored of the Pomeranian’s company and padded over.

Three hits. One from when the item had been originally sold, one for its appearance on the auction site. And the last on the blog of one Skylar Huang, proudly showing off her latest find. Skylar Huang, urban explorer ran the tagline at the top of the page. There was a dozen or more videos, mostly of her breaking into abandoned buildings. Some of her in underground storm drains. One was the cinema complex on the edge of town, showing some of the same torn and faded posters that Argana had seen on her own trip there, a couple of years earlier.

She felt her excitement rising. Skylar might even be based in Trotterwell.

“Hey Max, I think I’ve got something!”

Max came out from under her table, stretching first his front legs and then his back legs, and finally shaking himself over. Then he put a paw on her knee, keen to be going.

Argana was reading the most recent entry in the blog with unconcealed delight. As Trotterwell had expanded, minor brooks and tributaries had been covered over, creating a network of underground tunnels. Some led to the storm drains that emptied into the Derwent. Others met up with the brook that ran through Joseph Wright’s Park. In the summer, baring the odd flash flood, they stayed dry. And according to Skylar Huang’s blog, she was entering one such tunnel even as Argana read it. Finally, a lucky break.

“Hup boy, we’re going for a walk. Another one.”

She slurped down the rest of her coffee, getting up.

Max beat her to the door, already recovered from their walk. She wished she could say the same.

It was half a mile to Joseph Wright’s Park, Max trotting ahead of her. Argana had tried walking faster to catch up, but that just make him speed up too, occasionally looking over his shoulder to check she was following. They reached the top end of the park, the corner nearest the market cross. According to Skylar’s message, she had entered a passageway via a disused well in the old town and was making her way down to a culvert near the duck pond. Her website was set up to track her position live, but being underground, updates were sporadic.

From the cluster of medieval buildings higher up the hill, the tunnel would have to pass under the pedestrianised street and then under the park itself.

“Max, we’re looking for someone underground,” she said.

When he looked nonplussed, she settled for pointing at a drain cover. “Find!”

She followed him at a leisurely pace as he ran from grill to grill, sniffing at each one in turn. They were metal covers with slats in, formed of cast iron, the size of a microwave door. You could probably lift and squeeze through one, if you were slim enough.

Max’s bark attracted her attention. He’d crossed over into the park itself, gone thirty metres down the path, and was resolutely pointing at a grill next to a park bench. Pointing in his case meant lying down on the opposite side of the path, legs tucked under him, low in the grass with his head pointed.

Argana squatted down next to the hole. She banged on the grate with her keys. “Hello?” She called.

There was a scuffling, squelching sound from the void, making her skin crawl. She’d seen far too many dark things in dark spaces to feel easy about it. Tensing her legs, she readied herself to spring away.

But when a face appeared, there was nothing fearsome about it. Skylar Huang, angling herself so that stripes of sunlight fell on her smudged skin, pushed her black hair out of her eyes. “Er, hey there.”

“So, and this is going to sound super weird, I think you bought a coin. Like, a Demoncoyn. And, if you’ve got it, I’d like to buy it off you.”

“That is insane!” yelled Skylar, her voice echoing. “Ask me again. For the camera.” She briefly dazzled Argana as she adjusted the device on its head strap, forgetting to turn the torch off. “Go.”

Argana blinked, seeing only fuzzy pink dots for the moment, which made it hard to make eye contact.

“Er, the Demoncoyn you bought. Can I, can I buy it off you?”

Skylar clicked the camera off.

“You said it better the first time, I can’t use that. You look well dopey.”

“How about this,” Argana cooed, “you trade me the coin, and you get my reaction shot?”

“It’s a brilliant idea, with one small problem.”

“What’s that?” asked Argana, who specialised in solving small problems all as much as she specialised in causing them.

“I already traded it.”

“What, who to? A sewer rat?”

Skylar laughed,

“No, some little kid who saw me climbing into the well. You might be in luck, he said he was on his way to the park.”

“You just… gave it away? I mean, who goes on an underground jaunt just to trade crypto?”

“Yeah? Who goes yelling down storm drains to trade Crypto?”

“Hmm. Point taken.”

“I saw he had this. I wanted it.”

Skylar dug in her pockets for a moment, as far as Argana could make out from the surface. Then there was a glowing circle next to her, five centimetres across. It went smoothly up and down. Her hand did too, at the same pace, but less distance.

Argana squinted at it through the bars.

“Is that a yo-yo?”

“Yep. Glow in the dark. Now you see why I traded with the kid? Glowing yoyo in the storm drain, I’m going to crush the socials.”

Skylar turned away, ready to disappear into the darkness.

“Wait!” yelled Argana. “This kid, how do I recognise him?”

The explorer laughed.

“That’s easy! He’s in a ladybird costume.”

Well, Argana knew someone like that. Oscar, Melvyn’s nephew.

Minutes later, she was jogging across the park, glaring at groups of ambling people as she searched for Oscar. She glimpsed a familiar pair down by the pond. A round, red orb with black dots, stubby arms, and a shock of blonde hair accompanied by a thin woman with a pointy jaw. Oscar and his mum Gretel, leaning over the edge of the ornamental bridge, throwing pieces of bread to the ducks.

She ran down toward them, Max racing ahead. The ducks ignored him. They knew him well enough.

“Oscar!” Argana called out once she was close enough.

“Hey Argana! Look Oscar, it’s your auntie!”

Oscar held out a piece of bread to her.

“You wanna throw it?”

Argana shook her head.

“No, it’s bad for them. Did you, er, see a girl underground? In the sewer grate?”

“It’s not bad,” interjected Gretel. “It’s granary. It’s got seeds!”

“She gave me this,” said Oscar earnestly, holding up a disk in his small hand. Made of black plastic and the size of a bottle top, it looked a little like a pill box. It made been made to appear carved, bearing the D-with-a-trident-and-devil-tail logo of Demoncoyn on it.

“Can I-” She reached for it, but he snatched it away.

“Mine.” He said.

“Be nice, Oscar. Show your Auntie what you got from the strange underground woman,” said Gretel. Adding as an aside, “I don’t make a habit of letting him talk to people in storm drains, you know.”

But Oscar just stuck his lip out, handing Argana his half-loaf of bread instead. She tucked it absently into one of her pockets.

She got down on one knee to be closer to him. “How about I trade you something?”

“I don’t have the yellow car anymore,” he said.

“No, for that little black box.”

He looked uncertainly at his mum, but she’d stepped away to throw a stick for Max.

“What have you got to swap?”

She searched her backpack for something suitable. Needing both hands, she first tucked the lump of bread into one of its side compartments.

“How about this?” She held up a dinosaur Yasmin had given her. Purple, with orange spikes, and a button that had been billed as ‘realistic roaring action’ but was nothing of the sort.

The boy tipped his head on one side, evaluating it. He sucked his lips in a moment, then shook his head.

“No.”

“Ok then, I…” Argana looked at the other things in her backpack. There was the scarab-backed-lighter she’d gotten from Patty, but even she knew that wasn’t a suitable thing to give a small child. She couldn’t see anything else he might want.

“Dog,” said Oscar, pointing. Gretal and Max were coming back now.

Argana spluttered.

“I can’t give you Max!”

Oscar spread his arms wide, the Demoncoyn still pinched between two fingers.

“No silly, a ride!”

She looked between the boy and the dog. As a border collie, Max was an average build hound. From the last vet visit, she recalled he weighed eighteen kilos. Oscar had to be about the same. It wouldn’t be fair to the animal.

“Ok,” she said. “But only across the bridge.”

The ornamental bridge wasn’t long, maybe seven metres.

“And back?” he asked, keenly.

“Auntie Argana knows what her dog can do,” said Gretel firmly. She herself didn’t look convinced, though.

“Come here Max. Good boy. We’re going to give Oscar here a ride, ok?”

Oscar beamed widely, dimpling his cheeks. Putting her hands under his armpits, Argana hoisted him up.

“I’ll just hold on to you, just so you don’t fall off,” she said.

Although what she was actually doing was supporting most of his weight, so that barely any was on Max’s shoulders. And that’s how they crossed the bridge. Max padding, Oscar whooping, and Argana stooping uncomfortably.

They reached the other side. Putting the boy back on the ground, she stretched, pushing her thumbs into her spine at her waist. It had been an awkward angle to carry him at, and if she’d been any older, she’d have surely thrown her back out.

“Again!” he yelped, hopping up and down. Max backed up a little, as nonchalantly as he could.

“Say thank you Max,” said Gretel, who’d been following along, filming the occasion on her phone. The boy did.

“And give Auntie Argana the whatever-it-is.”

Smiling, Oscar handed her the Demoncoyn. She’d been expecting to feel something, some sense of shock or power, but there was nothing. Just slightly sticky plastic. Such a small, inconsequential thing. Hard to imagine it gave her so much potential power. That it was the key to Balor-El’s soul.

Other interests

It was dark. Winds had blown the clouds away and now the stars stared down on Doctor Damola Egbe and his assistant Livvy as they worked. They’d approached the unnatural dome with extreme caution, maintaining a minimum distance of ten metres. And that only when they’d established that it did not emit harmful levels of radiation, x-rays, ultraviolet, or subsonics.

They were practically alone with it, the army having set up a second inner cordon at the bottom of the street. A couple of other specialists had come and gone, leaving remote probes behind. Working with a frenzy borne of excitement, they’d run a gamut of more detailed measurements.

Damola rummaged through the final equipment bag.

“We haven’t tried an aura test yet.”

“I’m on it.”

Livvy removed a Geiger counter from their tripod, replacing it with an adjustable grabber. Damola took a device that looked like a monocular and set it on top, inserting a prism after it. They tightened the grips and mounted a polaroid camera on the back.

He looked at the star-studded sky, against which the dome was a black, light eating mass.

“We could do with more illumination.”

“We can run it again in the daylight.”

“If we’re still allowed to be here by then.”

There was no need to look back down the road to know that the soldiers were still there, manning their barricades. The sound of tracked vehicles chewing up civilian streets hadn’t ceased since they’d arrived.

“We can get a fix against one of the streetlights behind it,” he said. “Compare the Newtonian and Goethian diffusion patterns.”

His phone rang. It was an unknown number but, given the circumstances, he answered it.

“Hello? Is this Doctor Egbe?” asked a woman’s voice, at once serious and perky, used to public communication.

“Uh, yeah… Mrs Brouse, is that you?” He’d been so absorbed in the work, he’d forgotten all about her.

“I’ve got a clearance to get the TV crew up. I’ve got a ten minute window. You’re the only specialist on site.”

“You want an interview?” he asked, puzzled.

“Yes. Five minutes.” She hung up.

This time he did look down the road. They were already moving barriers aside. A transit van bristling with antennae wallowed impatiently on the road behind.

Livvy stopped what she was doing, noticing his anxiety.

“What is it?”

“Something I just agreed to by accident.”

Damola sighed, taking his overalls off. He unrumpled the suit that he’d been wearing underneath it. Fished a tie from his pocket and fastened it approximately. Glancing nervously at the shimmering black dome, he wondered if it was watching.

“Ok, just breathe. Here, let me help you with that.” Livvy adjusted his tie for him. “It’s not every day you get to be interviewed on national TV.”

At the bottom of the street the television crew milled by their van waiting for the authorities to let them go. They had a tripod mounted camera pointed their way. He gulped, his Adam’s apple rubbing uncomfortably against a collar that suddenly seemed too tight.

“You ok, Prof? You want to practice with me before you face them?”

She had turned tactfully away as he changed his trousers.

“Don’t call me that. Not for the press”

“Professor?”

“That’s worse. I’m Doctor Egbe, that’s all.”

“Not even acting, Prof? Come on, give yourself a field promotion. Everyone knows you’re running the department.”

“That’s strictly temporary. It is, both figuratively and actually literally above my pay grade.”

“So, Professor Doctor…” Livvy pulled a hairbrush from her handbag and interviewed him with it, “…what, in your esteemed opinion, is that?”

“I’ve heard social media posts are saying that it’s an event horizon of a black hole, which of course might very well look like that. But we can discount that possibility because, at this proximity, the gravitational effects of the tidal force would tear us apart.”

“Anyone could tell that. Maybe lead with some of the experiments we conducted?”

He scratched at his collar, eyes flicking to the two carts full of enquiring devices.

“Yes, good point. We set up a triangulated ionisation phase reader…”

“Who’s we? You should mention your glamorous assistant.” She laughed, batting her lashes playfully.

“Will you stop interrupting?” Damola glanced over his shoulder at the distant TV crew, uncomfortably aware of keeping them waiting. Right now, everything made him uncomfortable. The heat, his stupid tie, the imminent interview, and the fact that he had not a single concrete conclusion to make about that shimmering black wall.

“Shoot, then,” said Livvy, still waving the hairbrush.

“My glamorous assistant, the delightful Livvy, and I have run a battery of tests on the anomaly. We can verify that the external surface is not charged, radioactive or toxic, at least not beyond acceptable parameters. It is impenetrable to light waves, infra and ultra-light, X-rays, radio waves and microwaves. The same is true of sound.”

“Go on, Prof.”

“We are parapsychologists by training, so we also ran tests to establish a Boccioni-Klune baseline for later measurements. A 20 mega trip Monte Carlo device established a 0.013 percent deviation in the standard luck curve, which we consider…”

“Too dry. You’ve lost your viewers. Fifteen seconds of fame and you’ve blown it already.”

“How about we…”

“Ah, hold on. They’re waving us over.”

The van had been let through the barrier but hadn’t been cleared to get as close as them. It had stopped at the halfway point, side door open, the crew already re-setting their equipment. Madelaine Brouse signalled at him with both arms.

“Damn. Wish me luck.”

“Your tie’s on straight. Go knock their paradigms off, Prof.”

Heart hammering, fight or flight response barely supressed, Damola stood in front of the array of lights and microphones. How Madelaine looked so calm, he didn’t know. His throat was dry. He’d done courses on public communication, of course, but they all assumed that you were doing it online, in a situation where you got a do-over if you muffed it.

“Doctor Egbe - I am I saying that right? Before I start, anything I need to know? Human interest bits.”

“I’m a scientist,” said Damola, who had long since learned to keep his private life private. Besides he was distracted. Madelaine hadn’t seen it, but a black limo was careening up Station Road, swerving around police and army alike.

“Ok, I’ll keep it simple.” Madelaine tapped her microphone twice, checking it was on. “Can you tell me… this works better if you look at me, Doctor. Cut.”

“Er…” Damola pointed behind her. More black limos had joined the first one. Amid all the emergency lights it was hard to see clearly, but it appeared that figures in black cloaks stepped from the vehicles even as they slowed.

“Frag it all. The story's moved on, kids.” The journalist stepped so that her cameraperson’s view was of the approaching limousines over her shoulder. “Keep it rolling. I’m Madelaine Brouse for Dark Peak TV. Live from the anomaly. As you can see, right now…”

The lead car hadn’t slowed or veered as it approached the soldiers. They parted like skittles, knocked aside by an invisible force. It raced through the gap they’d left for the radio van, wheels squealing.

“Prof!”

Livvy, abandoning their equipment, had sprinted down from the edge of the black dome.

“What the hell’s going on?” she demanded breathlessly.

“We’re getting out of here, that’s what.” When she didn’t move, he grabbed her hand and pulled, stirring her into motion. “Right now.”

There wasn’t anywhere to go, all they could do was run down the pavement and hope that the car didn’t stop for them.

The car stopped, screeching so close to the TV van that the bumpers touched. Credit to Madelaine, her crew were still filming, hoping for a wild exclusive.

A tall man in Catholic priest’s robes climbed from the passenger seat. Craggy lines ran through his face, and he exuded confidence as he bore relentlessly toward the journalists. Two identical looking middle-aged women got out too. Damola didn’t look too carefully, not wanting to slow down. He caught snatches of the conversation.

“The camera’s gone dead!”

“You’ve got no right, MacGillycuddy…”

The sound of his pounding feet blocked the rest. He’d heard that name before, though.

The soldiers were walking away from the check point, replaced by black clad people with crucifixes embroidered at their shoulders. Only Lance Corporal Andrews remained, beckoning frantically at them.

“No, I’ll escort them off!” he was saying in heated debate with one of the… what were they? Priests? Cultists? Damola wasn’t sure. The corporal broke off the conversation as they arrived, panting hard, fighting to get the breath into their lungs. It didn’t seem that there would be any respite.

“This way, Doctor, Ma’am.”

He started to walk away, but Damola called him back.

“Just… just a minute.”

Andrews looked between the two of them, clearly deciding which of them to help. Chivalry demanded that it be Livvy, but she played on the university's hockey team, and was much less out of breath than her supervisor. The corporal came down on the side of practicality, hooking his arm under Damola’s shoulder and guiding him away.

“We can’t stay here,” he said. “They’ve taken control of everything out to the second perimeter. I’m sorry about your equipment.”

“What?”

“They’ll destroy it, for sure. And anything Mrs Brouse has got, too.”

“Who do they think they are?” Livvy bunched her hands into fists.

“They called themselves The Paragnostica.”

Damola grunted. His previous run in with those had left a distinctly mixed impression on him.

“They can do that, can they? Dismiss the police and army. So much for the separation of church and state.”

Finding Daniel

Fred Berkshire took the A6 out to Stockport, grateful to be able to use the emergency lights on the way. It was a fifty limit road usually, in most places too curved to risk the more exciting manoeuvres from his training. And where it was straight, it was inflicted with the kind of hidden dips that made a mockery of safely overtaking. A good blast of the old blues-and-twos, though, and any number of tractors, four-by-fours and pootling convertibles got out of his way.

It was a bright day, and glorious high-sided hills and woodlands looked down as he sped along the road. Ever since Yasmin had identified them, he’d been waiting to go and find Daniel Winterman. The youth who was an exact match for Elmo, still slumbering in his plant at Judith’s. He’d have liked to have had more time to do it, but with the pressing case of the black globe, everything had taken on an urgency that unsettled him.

Near the outskirts of Stockport, just before the green hills gave way to the grey and red houses, he spotted a hare on a roundabout. Perfectly still, only its ears twitching. It watched him as he passed, its eyes glowing. The hair on his neck bristled. He watched it in the rear view for as long as he dared. Next time he glanced back, it was gone.

Pressing on, he turned off the A6 into Shaw Heath, looking for somewhere to park. He always found it strange, coming to the boroughs of Manchester from the Peaks. The houses were of red brick, not the familiar sand and gritstone of his home patch. The terraces seemed somehow squatter and wider, too. He found a parking spot on Windsor Street, not far from the Wintermans' house.

Tucking his hat under his arm - he still hadn’t been able to replace the cap with a proper helmet - he knocked on the door.

A man opened it, middle-aged, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and gripping a newspaper in one hand. Open at the cryptic crossword, Fred noticed. The man did a double take, eyes flicking from Fred’s face to his uniform and back again.

“Er…” he said, taking some time to get his mouth operating, “…seven letters. First letter F. Can’t figure the clue, though… still, doesn’t seem worth ringing 999 for.”

Fred gave him what he hoped was a disarming smile.

“Mr Winterman, is it, sir? I could do with a word with your son.”

Mr Winterman stepped back, sweeping his newspaper in front of him like a shield.

“Is he in trouble?”

“Not exactly. He can just… he can help with some enquiries.”

“Danny! There’s some copper here for you!”

There were footsteps on the stairs. Danny Winterman came down them, his lips pressed into a thin, apprehensive line.

Fred couldn’t help staring. He’d seen a great deal of Elmo, of course. Danny was the same height, same skinny arms, same slightly bowed legs and turned-in feet. Same tufty brown hair. But Elmo had never had a face, and a week of wondering what he really looked like came suddenly to an end. Elmo’s eyes - Daniel’s eyes, Fred corrected himself - were hazel beneath straight, stark eyebrows. His nose was long and narrow, his jawline delicate.

And besides that, he glowed. It wasn’t a glow that illuminated the dark stairwell, or that reflected in the entrance-hall mirror either. It was a glow in his mind’s eye. Something that his faesight was telling him.

Daniel stopped in front of him, not speaking, showing no sign that he knew what Fred could see.

“I could do with a word if it’s alright. Shall we go for a walk?”

“Go on, son,” said Mr Winterman.

A cut through between the opposite row of houses took them to Hallam Park, a rectangular green space set amid the houses. What it lacked in area it made up for in height, tall trees reaching skyward. A low fence curtained off a children’s play area. That’s where they went, each sitting on a swing.

“Hold there a second,” Fred told him.

Side-on to the lad, he pulled a photo of an ear from his jacket and checked it against Daniels. It was as good a match as the e-fit would allow.

“Do you know what this is about?”

The boy, speaking for the first time, nodded.

“I’ve an idea. But I’m not going to just say. There are rules.”

“You’re a changeling.”

“Prove it.”

Fred stared at the boy. He didn’t hang around with Argana without picking a few things up. Something he remembered gave him an idea.

“I will. Come off the swing.”

Fred hopped deftly off his perch, looking around the playground. Finding what he wanted, he went over. A merry-go-round, a set of four metal chairs arranged at right angles to one another upon a rotating deck. Child-sized chairs.

Daniel followed him, curiosity lighting his previously sullen face.

“Hop on,” said Fred.

Daniel straddled one of the chairs, his lanky frame too large for it. He braced himself against the grab rail.

Fred gave the base a gentle kick, just to overcome its inertia.

“Push yourself.”

The boy looked askance at him.

“I’m an officer of the law. Push yourself around.”

Daniel lowered himself until he could reach a foot over the edge of the merry-go-round, then booted the ground. Creaking, the apparatus turned slowly anti-clockwise.

Fred watched him a minute, then reached out a hand, slowing it to a halt.

“What’s that prove?” asked Daniel, amused.

“Nothing. But this does. Do it the other way.”

“Sure.” Daniel kicked out again, starting the turntable up. Turning anti-clockwise, as before.

Fred stopped it. “No, the other way.”

“Yes sir.”

Daniel put his boot down but didn’t push. His leg trembled.

“You can’t willingly do it, can you?” observed Fred.

The boy stood up off the machine, returning to the swings. Fred followed him.

“Because you’re Unseelie Fae,” said Fred, reciting what Argana had told him. “And for you it’s bad luck to turn anything other than widdershins.”

“You got me,” said the boy. He sat down on the swing, took the chains in his hands, and swung gently. He only glanced at Fred once, but when he did, Fred saw that his eyes had changed, becoming yellow with an elongated pupil. Cat-like.

“So, what happens now?” asked the policeman.

Daniel laughed.

“What, you don’t know? You’re messing too many things up to not have a plan.”

“How long have you known what you are?”

The chains squeaked, shrill, as the boy rocked on the swing.

“I’ve always known. I just didn’t know that I knew. Up until a week ago, I just thought I was Daniel Winterman. Then… it was like I woke up.”

“I’m sorry. That must have been hard.”

Daniel snorted. “No. I hate it here. I’m glad I don’t belong, that I’m going somewhere else. I don’t have to pretend anymore.”

The police officer climbed into the next swing, kicking his legs to get it moving. “They’re calling you back? To Fairyland?”

“The moment you passed out of Derbyshire.”

Fred thought of the bright-eyed hare he’d seen. A spy for the fae. This whole faesight thing was going to take some getting used to.

“But I’d known already that the time would come. When I woke up, that’s because something happened, isn’t it?”

Fred nodded.

“A fae-hunting demon awoke. Balor-El. He trashed a whole houseful of changelings and allies in Trotterwell. I’m not sure it’s safe here.”

“Can you give me a lift?” Daniel asked, slowing his swing.

“What?” Fred thought of Mr Winterman, waiting back in the house. If Daniel left, Fred would have to tell him some cover story. That he’d been taken in for questioning. If Elmo woke up - and that was a big if - he could simply return with him later. It was the perfect swap. “Where to?”

“That’s for me to know and you to-”

“Grindleford,” Fred said firmly. “One of my associates believes there’s a door to Arcadia in the tunnel.”

Daniel’s laugh was unnatural, full of bells and resonances that no human windpipe should possess. He looked taller, older than he had when he first came out of the house.

“Here’s the deal,” Fred told him. “I take you to Grindleford, and you show my associate Ms Zeit the way to Arcadia.”

“Never mind, I’ll walk.”

Fred set his jaw.

“There’s something out there hunting your kind. But if you want to take your chances, that’s fine with me.”

He let go of the chains at the highest point of his swing, sailing forward and spraying wood chips from the ground when he landed. Straightening up, he dusted his uniform down and walked away.

Daniel ran after him.

“Wait!”

Forms of transport

Argana Zeit waited outside the cafe at Grindleford station. The same one where she’d met Benny and his ferret. Disappointingly, it was shut, though this had the upside that she’d found a parking space for her car. A legitimate one, for once. She’d taken the very short amble onto the bridge, just to see the black mouth of Grindleford tunnel, and come back again. And now she and Max were set on the low stone wall of the picnic garden. Waiting. She shivered. It wasn’t cold, it was excitement.

A blip of blue, flashing lights on the hill above, suddenly lost again as the road wound down through the trees. But the growl of tyres could be heard. Berkshire stopped the police interceptor in the narrow turning space and waved at her. In the back sat a teenager, sort of haughty, with a long nose and yellow eyes. The policeman got out.

Max greeted him, tail wagging. Argana wasn’t far behind.

“Berk!” She hugged him. “You got him then? Is that him?”

“Yes…” he started, but Argana stepped passed him.

Going up to the car window, she peered in. The teenager, Daniel she supposed, didn’t return her gaze. He turned his head slowly away, as if time meant nothing, and people didn’t either.

“Hey!” she tapped on the window, “I’m Argana Zeit, I’ll be your sister-in-arms for your journey to Arcadia!”

He closed his eyes, pretending not to hear her. That, or he was narcoleptic.

She straightened up. “Not very talkative, is he?”

“Not really, no,” said Berkshire. “But he’s the real deal.” He nodded toward the maw of the railway tunnel mouth. “How, exactly, are you getting to the portal … is there some kind of access shaft?”

She caught the look of anxiety on his face. “It’s best if you don’t know,” she told him. There’d been handful of air shafts dug during its construction, but from what little she’d been able to find out, they’d all been backfilled. But she wasn’t about to tell an officer of the law that she was simply going to walk a mile down a railway track in the dark.

“I must try, Berk. Maybe I can get the rest of the kids released.”

“The rest of? Did you hear from Judith?”

“Yep. Elmo’s woken up already. And he’s got a face again. Plus… the fae fought the demons before. Hundreds of years ago, the last time Balor-El was up and around. It may be that they know how to banish him properly.”

Berkshire pushed his fingers into his moustache, tugging pensively at the corners.

“Could be. Stay safe, though.”

“I got this too.” She presented the Demoncoyn, holding it up close to his face. “It’s his soul.”

“Should I take it with me?” he asked.

“Why, where are you going?”

“To the black orb, of course! See if I can get in. With my freshly augmented peepers. If that’s Balor’s soul, and he’s in there with ‘Melvyn the Magnificent’, perhaps I can cut a deal.”

She felt a sudden lump in her throat. She had hoped they could face the danger in the tunnel together.

“I guess… do what you can, Berk. But be careful! But I’m taking the soul with me. If I get in a tight spot, I can barter with the fae.”

“Look, I tasered Balor-El and you rune-burned him, and yet he’s still apparently in this world. If I get in there, I’d like a little more authority than my badge and my police baton!”

“Ok,” she held the Demoncoyn out again. “Oh, but you have to trade for it.”

He stared at her for a moment, shrugged, and pulled out his wallet. Shook some silver-coloured coins into his hand.

“Something,” she added, “worth less than a piggy-back ride on a dog.”

“Like what?”

“It’s a barter economy now. Kiss me. Here.” She tapped a fingertip against her cheekbone.

He bent and kissed her on the side of her face, his lips barely brushing the skin, his moustache tickling her temple.

She handed him the coin. “Thanks. That’s bragging rights with Yasmin. She thinks you’re hot.”

He closed his hand over the plastic token, giving her a slightly hurt look. Then he went back to the police car, banged once on its roof.

“Come on, lad, time to fulfil your part of the deal.”

With deliberate slowness, Daniel sighed and got out of the other side of the car, just so that he had to come the long way around.

“You said I had to show her the way to Arcadia, you didn’t say I had to talk to her,” he grumbled.

“Daniel, Argana. Argana, Daniel,” Berkshire waved introductions.

Then he took one of Argana’s hands in his own, squeezing it. “You look after yourself, Mrs Zeit. We’ll have a pint in the Green Dragon when this is all over.”

She watched him get back in the car, busying himself with the police radio.

Turning to Daniel, she said,

“Well, Winterman, ready?”

They followed the steps down onto the station platform. It really was just a platform. No buildings, just a long, raised section next to the railway. It was only fifty metres or so from the entrance to the railway tunnel, an impenetrable black square in the thin moonlight. She’d checked the railway timetable, and there was nothing due for forty minutes. But still she looked both ways before vaulting down onto the track.

Daniel scrambled down behind her. Stopping to look at the tunnel, he smirked with satisfaction.

Max was less keen. Staying on the platform, he looked back and forth between the railway line and the tunnel mouth, whining softly.

She turned around. He was practically at head height to her, so she had to stand on tiptoes to put her hands on his hackles.

“I want you to sit this one out,” she said, soothing his unruly fur down. “I’ll be fine. I know you don’t like tunnels. And I know you want to come with me. But it’s a long way, and I should have thought of this sooner. You go back to the car. Go on.”

She stepped back. But he remained where he was, balanced uncertainly with one paw in the air.

“Berkshire,” she said, pointing. “Go back to Berkshire!”

He set off like a rocket. She hoped he would be in time, as she heard the policeman start the car.

It wasn’t until she was inside the tunnel that she was prepared to put her torch on. She kept it mostly pointed downward, because when she pointed it into the distance it was swallowed by the darkness, only emphasising how far there was to go. And there was a long way to go, Grindleford tunnel being nearly four miles long. Daniel, plodding silently a constant metre behind her, had no light source. Perhaps his disturbing cat-like eyes didn’t need any.

Fearing an unscheduled train, she remained alert. Her ears strained at any sound, but all she heard was her feet against gravel, and the drips that came with all underground spaces in the Peaks. Water filtering through the hundred metres of rock and soil above. Daniel’s feet, now that he was unmasked as a changeling, made no sound.

For ten minutes they walked like that, travelling in an unchanging bubble of light that illuminated her feet, two parallels of rail, the gravelly floor and the beginnings of the dark wall sides. It was nerve-wracking. She didn’t have a fear of the dark, she had a fear of being seen in the dark. Anyone or anything could be in the tunnel with her, watching her, and she wouldn’t be able to see them. The thought made her skin crawl. Every twenty strides or so she flicked her torch to the wall, checking for some change. The first hundred metres had been tagged by graffiti artists. But they hadn’t come in this far, and the walls were left as they had been hewn, a century and a half earlier.

It was the breeze that alerted her. It wasn’t any fresher than the air around her, but it was colder.

Cutting her light, she threw herself against the rock face, making herself as flat as possible. Trains pushed air ahead of them. Her pulse, raised by panic, thundered in her ears. But she could hear nothing else. No train, then. Turning her torch on again, she stumbled forward onto the tracks, relieved. Daniel had gone nowhere, standing in the middle of the tracks. He sniggered at her. That was the most interaction she’d got out of him so far.

Ten metres on, she found the source of the breeze.

A door was drawn on the wall in green chalk, starting a metre above the ground. A rough rectangular outline accompanied by crude sketches of animals that might be the many kinds of fae. Spindly limbed and bat-eared, for the most part. Some with huge round eyes. The mural was unnerving, but not as unnerving as the breeze. It came from the edges of the non-existent door, blowing right out of the chalk lines.

Naturally, she poked a finger in one of the lines to see if would go through. It didn’t. She stubbed her finger, feeling the nail flex painfully.

She shook her hand out, then tucked it under her other armpit.

“Do you know how to open this?” she asked Daniel.

“If you want to go in, you have to do it yourself. I’m a princeling, I’m not stooping to help you.”

“Neither of us have time for these games!”

He folded his arms smugly.

“I’ve got all the time I need. I’m immortal.”

Her laughter was as spontaneous as it was unkind.

“As if! You’re never that level of spirit. You’ll fade away, like boggarts and thistlefolk. You want to open that door as much as I do. You’ve got nowhere else to go. I expect right now the real Elmo - the real Daniel Winterman - I bet he’s already woken up and is on his way home. There’s nothing left for you in this world.”

“It’s not right… you have to play a game for it.”

“Nonsense! I’m keeping my wits to match someone far greater than you! Now stop wasting both our time and open the blummin’ door!”

Looking suitably chided, he reached out, touching the line. He murmured a few words, looking surprised by them. A latent memory. The lines glowed, shifted. With a grinding sound the section of wall hinged away, making them both duck. It was the same glow of green light that she’d seen from the train when her stalker had vanished. There was a room beyond, vaulted and glowing. Elbowing Daniel out of the way, she climbed in, eager to be first.

She was rewarded with a light source other than her dim torch. The hole widened into a semicircular chamber with a canal running through it, illuminated by dimly glowing mushrooms clinging to the ceiling. Their amber and green glow reflected off glossy tiles on the lower surfaces. Screaming faces stared from the tiles, moulded into them.

But the thing that really drew her attention was the boat. It was built of wood and canvas, all painted brightly. There were windows of leaded crystal, like the glasswork of some cursed church. Bow and stern alike were wrought in beaten bronze. These rose from the waterline to form twisted figures from folklore.

“The night boat,” said Daniel, climbing into the doorway behind her.

Argana walked toward it, putting her feet down carefully to reduce their sound. It was habit, really, as they must know she was there. It was waiting for her. Or, more likely, for him.

A hatch opened in the side of the narrowboat, about halfway along. It consisted of two half height doors just above the gunwale that hinged outward, with an extra bit in the roof that folded backward. A head appeared through that gap, and a somewhat canine fae stepped up into the opening. He was two thirds the height of a human, with tapering ears, a grey muzzle and switchback legs. His uniform was of velvet, hooped with brocade and studded with seashell buttons. In his paws he clutched a gangplank. Moving oddly, he slotted one end into grooves in the doorway and lowered the other to the side of the canal by means of a rope.

“We should go in,” said Daniel, although she noticed he remained behind her.

“Oh, you reckon, do you?”

The creature had large, black eyes that blinked wetly as he looked at her. He nodded, coming down the bank and standing to one side. Sweeping an arm out, he beckoned them aboard.

She strode up. She’d come too far to turn back now. The plank was narrow, unsteady. The water beneath it was black in the low light, its ripples catching reflections of the glowing mushrooms above, like a sea of drunken stars. The doorman put a paw on her elbow, steadying her. His grip was warm, firm but gentle. He chittered something in a language she didn’t understand. It was an insectoid sound, reminding her that however much the fae might look like a mammal, he wasn’t.

“Thanks. Where are we going?” she asked him.

Sounds skittered from his mouth in reply.

She nodded noncommittally, and stepped down into the boat, feeling it shift ever so slightly with her weight. Daniel came too, although once aboard, he made his way to the opposite end of the boat.

Inside it was long and narrow, as narrowboats are like to be. The ceiling was just a little shorter than she was, forcing her to stoop. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it was cosy inside, the walls set with pottery oil lamps. There were twenty chairs down the length of the boat, of many different designs, but all to her eye antique. Some were carved wood, smoothed and oiled, others upholstered in ancient leather. The floor was tiled with bark, and the walls festooned with small tapestries and strips of cloth. The only untidy thing was the heap of luggage in the very front of the boat. She went that way, hoping she might see more from the portholes there.

The dogman closed the door behind them, remaining outside. She started for a moment, fearing a trap, but then heard him climb onto the top of the boat. His footsteps sounded through the ceiling as he made his way to the back. As strangely made as the boat was, it seemed to echo the design of the narrowboats that plied the canals of the surface world. Most had an open deck at the stern, where the tiller-operator rode. A pair of doors she could see aft, near to where Daniel sat, suggested this was so.

Something close by moved, startling her. When they’d come aboard, she’d been sure they were the only ones aboard. But she’d been wrong. Right at the front of the boat a great creature lolled, barely more than an arm’s length from her. It had cast aside the tarpaulin that had disguised it as nothing but luggage.

At the sight of it, every muscle in her body stiffened.

It had two tiny eyes, deep set on either side of a vast, cone-shaped head topped with a fin. Its closed mouth was a ragged line that slashed all the way across it, as if cut rather than grown in place. It was chinless, the underside of its head contrasting sharply with the upper. Craggy, ugly folds dotted with what appeared to be barnacles. Pudgy stout limbs were folded under it.

Seeing her watching, it opened its mouth for an instant to lick its non-existent lips, revealing thousands of triangular teeth arranged haphazardly in its gums. The tongue that flicked out was scarred and leathery, the size of a lamb carcass. It snapped shut again.

There was no pretending she hadn’t seen it. “Hi,” she said.

It belched, blinking its tiny eyes. She couldn’t decide if it looked more like a shark or a toad, and either way she didn’t like it.

It took twenty minutes for the boat to reach its destination, all that time rocking gently in the eddies. Argana had allowed herself to relax when the frogshark closed its eyes although whether it slept or not, she couldn’t tell. She missed Max. Once or twice, she’d taken her eye off the creature long enough to look out of the portals. The tunnel had narrowed, not much bigger than the boat itself now. The water lapped noisily against the sides as the boat pushed its way through. It wasn’t completely dark. They passed lights, bronze-and-green, lanterns recessed into the brickwork. Of course, Daniel said nothing in this time. He didn’t even look at her.

Then all at once the lapping sound grew quieter, and there was light again. It was hard to make out through the thick, distorted glass of the window, but it seemed that they’d arrived in another chamber.

As before she heard footsteps on the roof, as the dog-faced tender came forward. The boat wobbled when he jumped down, and she heard his feet slap against what sounded like stone cobbles. Then he opened the doors up, without looking at her, and attached the gangplank. Sticking his head in, he said something rapid and unintelligible. When he stepped out of view, she glanced across at the frogshark, but it wasn’t moving. Well, she wasn’t going to wait to see if an amphibian with a thousand teeth wanted to politely go first.

She got up, banging her head on the ceiling. Then, stooping, she went to the doorway, halfway along the boat. Pausing to look out, the view was half blocked by the tender, standing on the canal bank. His paw outstretched, waiting to help her. He was in silhouette, the vaulted walls beyond him made of bright marble inset with mosaics. It was hard to tell where the light came from, though it illuminated everything, especially-

It charged at her down the length of the boat, knocking chairs aside. Claws scraping dust from the bark floor. She’d only taken her eyes from the frogshark for an instant as she stepped up to the hatch. She whirled around and froze, her heart skipping several gears at the sight of its effort to reach maximum speed. The creature’s mouth had become a circle. A yawning pit full of keratinous spikes, rushing up at her so fast that it felt like falling.

She flinched so hard she left the floor.

The jaws snapped with such force that splintered fragments of its own teeth whistled past her. For a horrible second, she felt her legs snap, torn off at the ankles - and then blinked, realising that that hadn’t happened. The perils of an overactive imagination. It had stopped short, the width of a knife blade away from eviscerating her. All it had caught was one shoelace.

It rocked back and shuddered, its tiny eyes blinking. A sort of reverberating burp swelled its head, hissing out at its corners.

Daniel had come from the rear of the boat and was standing just behind the creature, a wry smile quirking his face.

“It’s laughing at you,” he said.

“Not funny,” she snapped at him, steadying herself with an elbow over the hatch side. Her vision swam.

The tender, his arm still outstretched, turned his doglike face away. He seemed to be laughing too but had the civility not to show it.

"That was a cheap shot! Anyone would have jumped!" she complained.

Turning around, she climbed backward out of the boat so that she could keep an eye on the squat, deformed shape of the frogshark. It watched her sharply, but didn’t move, still gripping her shoelace in its mouth. She tugged that free, the severed end dangling.

The tender put his hand on her elbow to steady her. She slapped his paw away, springing the couple of metres to the canal side. As she did, she kicked the plank away, and it tumbled into the black water. It wouldn’t stop the frogshark following her, but it might give her a headstart. Dogface got down on his knees, leaning over to try and retrieve it, and she had an almost overwhelming urge to kick him in the bum and find out how deep the canal was. Almost. But he’d been polite enough in his way, so she looked away to resist temptation.

The hall was a terminus of sorts. Semicircular, but far larger than the mushroom station had been. You could have put Chesterfield's famous church in it without touching the edges, twisted spire and all. Cascades of vaults met at the top, like an inverted sea urchin, forming arches over great doorways. Each big enough to pass a couple of elephants through, if they were stacked carefully. The most formidable doorway, though, was ahead of the boat. The canal went all the way up to what looked like lock gates, made of tarred wood and far more ornate than she’d ever seen at Cromford Canal. Which is when she saw that there was a woman waiting for her, leaning artfully against the wall next to the gates, in a flowing green dress. A second person stood next to her, their face hidden in the hood of their hessian robes. They were flanked by two more figures that she thought for a moment were guards. But they weren’t, they were statues, their overlapping plates of armour carved of sandstone.

Argana walked toward the woman, crossing a floor that, while it had been made of cobbles next to the canal, was now of marble etched with floral motifs. Her trainers squeaked against it. She walked almost sideways, so she could keep the boat in her peripheral vision. The pilot had, with some effort, retrieved the gangplank. He needn't have bothered. The frogshark cleared the gap in one sproinking leap, landing next to him. Argana swallowed, fearing being caught between the sentinel and the strange people.

“Don’t worry about tha’ thing, he’ll stay back while you’re talking to his mistress.”

It was an almost familiar voice, a woman with a strong Derbyshire accent. Argana didn’t see who had spoken. Whirling, she thought it must belong to the robed figure. It couldn’t possibly belong to the woman in green. No one who talked like that could look so elegant, surely.

The woman regarded her back, steadily. In her silk dress sewn with tiny shells she was undoubtably a queen. A perfume emanated from her, smelling of clover and summer roses with an undercurrent of fresh dug soil. She watched Argana with eyes that were dark slashes below her cascading auburn curls. Her cheekbones were shiny diagonals, her skin the colour of acorns before they turn brown, and upon her brow was a crown made of twisted golden thorns.

She flashed a look at the robed figure next to her, who in response dropped her hood. Sturdy, freckled face. Scraped back hair. Cautious eyes. Patty Scholes, looking as officious as Argana had ever seen her.

“Hello, ‘Gana. This here would be Nuala of the Whispering Crystal, Queen of the Court of the Emerald Shard, Keeper of the Eighth Gate to Arcadia. Sister to six of the Seven Siblings.”

The Seven Siblings Argana had heard of, rumoured to be the monarchs of the Unseelie Fae. Every now and again the chancers running the Astral University of Tibet got the details right enough to justify her diploma with them.

“You should probably bow, or something,” added Patty, without sounding like she meant it.

“Bow? She’s not my queen!” said Argana, setting her jaw.

Daniel pushed passed her. Chest puffed out, chin up.

“Your Majesty!” he declared, performing a sweeping bow with an elegance that Argana never imagined he had.

Nuala held her knuckles out for him to kiss. He did so.

“Orinurr. So good to have you back,” she purred.

“I have learned so many things of the humans! Perhaps I could be so bold…”

She gave him a stare that stopped him mid-sentence. Made shooing motions with her hand.

“You know which door to take,” she said.

“He’s a prince.” Argana pretended to object. “He told me. You can’t treat him like that.”

Nuala’s eyes changed in a flash from green to black, her brows drawing as close as her taut skin would allow. Daniel cowered before it.

“It is not for you to claim, Orinurr. You are no princeling.”

“But Your Majesty…”

She reached up, clicking her fingers in the air. Sparks flew from her fingertips.

“I strip you of your name. Return to the boat and wait.”

He slouched, backing away from her, hunched over. Argana watched him with curiosity as he reversed his way back to the narrowboat, nearly toppling into the canal in the process. The tender came out from the back of the vessel to place the gangplank and open the hatch but said nothing to the disgraced changeling. Princeling indeed.

Patty cleared her throat. Argana snapped back around.

“The Queen would like to know, ‘Gana, what a mortal like you is doing here, and why you’ve sought an audience.”

“I haven’t come for any audience! I’ve come to make demands!”

“Oh, come now, don’t be rude,” said the Queen. Her voice was low but still feminine, patched together out of sounds like windchimes and valley-deep storms growling.

She pushed off from the wall, walking in a slow circle around Argana. Her naked feet made no sound against the marble as she moved. Despite herself, the investigator found that she liked the woman. She was the most glamorous person she’d ever seen, exuding poise the way a raven exudes mystery. When Nuala had done a complete circle, she stopped in front of Patty, staring down at the matriarch.

“You can go now,” she said.

“What? I’ve been waiting a sopping hour for her to turn up so that I can-”

“Go.”

Patty waited hesitated just long enough to count the delay as a protest, then performed the world’s most perfunctory curtsy. It looked like she’d tripped with her hands out at her waist. Turning her back on Nuala, she walked toward one of the portals, giving Argana the barest nod as she went. Nuala glared at her retreating shoulders but took no form of retribution.

As Patty reached the door, the lightless black surface within it shimmered and came to life. Light ran through it in liquid ripples, reminding Argana of old-style privacy glass. As if she only concentrated hard enough, she would be able to see through to the other side. The speaker put her hood up again, stepped into the portal, and disappeared. At once it became black again. There was no flash of light or anything to indicate what had happened.

Wondering how Patty had known which doorway to approach, Argana for the first time took in the details of the mosaics. Around each doorway they were different. This one had what could be, in a very stylised way, outlines of hills and stone cottages. Another had dancing, horned figures, and still other icons that looked like mermaids, waves and seashells.

“My time is infinite, child,” said Nuala, dragging Argana’s attention back before she could make out the rest of the mosaics. “And even so, I choose to spend no more of it upon you than I have to.”

Argana tried to calm her breathing before she replied. She’d been in danger ever since she’d entered the railway tunnel, and she could smell the fear in her own sweat. Stealing a glance over her shoulder, she checked on the frogshark. It remained stationary at the dockside, although it blinked at her. Behind it, the boat pilot was waiting to bring the narrowboat through the loch doors. He half raised and then lowered his hand, as if he had considered waving to her, and then thought better of it.

“Queen Nuala, the children have been found,” she said, sounding more confident than she felt. “There’s no advantage to you in keeping them asleep. It only increases interest in your realm. Let them go.”

Something twinkled in Nuala’s eyes. Playful, like a cat with a shrew.

“What’s in it for me?”

“That’s what’s in it for you! I’m here, alone, just to talk to you. But if you turn me down, next time it’ll be the Paragnostica, in numbers.”

“We”, the Queen trilled, “have a pact with them.”

“And, clearly, that pact is waning. If you hadn’t noticed, there’s an ancient demon running around on the surface, wrecking everything.”

“We noticed. We rewarded the trimmer-of-trees for his intervention.”

“Trimmer of- oh, Bark Shearer. Berkshire?”

“As I said. But you, I have no reason to deal with you.”

“Now look here—” Argana angrily stepped in, reaching to grab the Fae Queen’s elaborate collar.

Instantly Nuala blocked her, twisting her wrist. Cruel fingers closed with the strength of an eagle’s talons. The Queen spun her around, threatening to snap Argana’s arm in half if she didn’t follow. Her foot flashed out from beneath her dress, sweeping Argana’s legs from under her.

With a blow that drove the air from her lungs, Argana crashed onto the etched marble. She flailed as the Queen crouched on top of her, fighting her arms out of the way and seeking a better grip. The struggle was brief. Nuala was far the stronger of the two, her body unencumbered by the need to obey the laws of physics.

Her knees pinned Argana’s lower body, while with her right hand she held both Argana’s wrists out of the way. In her free hand she held a knife, a copper blade etched with runes. It now hovered between her eyes.

“We tire of this. We will kill you now, I think.”

“I have- a token-” gasped Argana. She wriggled so that it fell from her bodywarmer pocket, the ceramic lighter clattering against the tiles.

Nuala looked at it, scowled, and then cleared her face. Instantly she was stood upright, not a hair out of place and no creases in her dress to show of the scuffle, let alone a bruise or a scrape. Argana had plenty of both.

When the Queen reached out a hand, offering to help her up, Argana ignored it. Rolling clumsily onto all fours, she pushed up, standing with none of the grace that Nuala had managed.

"I’ll take that." Nuala stooped and picked it up, putting it into a pocket. That her dress had pockets was a surprise, it looked too ethereal. That the pocket swallowed the lighter without in any way changing the line of her dress, even more so.

Argana took two steps back from Nuala, trying to position herself so that she could study the portals over the Queen’s shoulder without looking like she was. If she needed to make a break for it, would one of them take her home?

“Amphibinog! Come closer!” The Queen beckoned the frogshark. It had a swaggering waddle, like the world’s ugliest bulldog, as it sped to her side. It licked its lips, flashing its rows of savagely misaligned teeth.

Argana retreated further. She counted seven portals in all, not including the lock gates, which she imagined went on to Arcadia itself. The one Patty had used lead somewhere in the Peaks, perhaps close by, that was obvious. Then there were the demon gate and the mermaid gate, which she’d already seen. And four more gates. One with what appeared to be a pair of wolves surrounding it. And then, mountains perhaps, and two with mosaics so abstract she couldn’t begin to guess at them.

“If you try and run, he will eat you. He’s a very messy eater.”

“I’ll give him indigestion. Promise.” Argana felt a lot less defiant than she sounded, having to change her stance to disguise the trembling in her legs.

“Perhaps you will. Now, you’re a resourceful old woman…”

“I’m twenty-four!”

“That’s young, is it? Time has been unkind to you,” said the Queen, squinting at her. Her own skin was of course smooth, glowing, wrinkle and blemish free. An airbrushed version of beauty, like Argana saw AIs paint.

“Yes, I am. Resourceful. I found your boat to Arcadia, and I got here. Has anyone else ever done that, without you inviting them first?”

Nuala looked wistful. “Not in a long while. And not since before they built the railway tunnel.”

She clapped her hands, just once, a formal sound that echoed throughout the mosaiced chamber.

“I want you to go through the maze,” she said, smirking. “I’ll be waiting at the centre.”

“If I get to the centre, you’ll release the children from their sleep?”

“If that will motivate you to enter the maze, yes.”

“And you’ll give them their faces back?”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t mention that. Very well. I will meet you at the centre, and if you can find it, I will release the children. Deal?”

“Deal.” Argana reached out to shake the Queen’s hand, but it was whipped out of the way before she could.

Nuala swept a cloak over herself and swirled away, disappearing in a shower of sparkles.

"Show off,” muttered Argana, looking around. She was alone on the platform, apart from Amphibinog. The monster burped, then licked its lips again. It rocked from side to side on its stout legs, limbering up.

“So, do you know where this maze is?” she demanded, putting her hands on her hips and glaring at it.

There was a whoosh behind her. Whirling around, she found that a previously unseen door had slid open. Much smaller than the others, it had blended in among the fractal pillars. It was barely taller than her. Through it she could see a short corridor that turned abruptly left. Shrugging, she went in, wishing that she had Max with her. Or even the disgraced Daniel. There was some difference in pressure, causing the cold, damp air of the tunnel behind to push in past her. Ruffling her hair, tugging at her clothes. Pushing eddies of dust along the ground.

The walls, around two metres high, didn’t go all the way up to the ceiling. Their rough concrete forms left a gap above them. But the size of the gap was impossible to guess, because the ceiling was so smooth she couldn’t focus on it. It was peach coloured, and either glowed softly or was lit from some unseen light-source. The walls were a different matter. Rough and dirty, daubed with broken lines of paint, they were made of vast blocks of sandstone. It had to be the maze.

Argana walked ten or twelve metres in, pausing before the first turning. She peered cautiously around it, seeing that it came to a T-junction a little further on. It was all very well getting in, but at some point, she was going to have to get out again.

She searched her backpack for something to leave a trail with. Found the half-loaf that Oscar had been feeding the ducks with. It seemed right, to solve a faery maze with a trick from a faery tale. Coming to the first corner, she tore a morsel of the bread away, dropping it. It tumbled a little in the breeze.

“That’s no good. We can’t have you blowing away,” she told it, picking it up again.

She searched briskly through her pack for something else to use. The ball bearings were there, the ones that Bruce had confiscated from the protesters at Brink Hall. They had the weight, alright, but the obvious problem was that they’d just roll away. Figuring a solution, she pressed into the morsel of bread. This time when she dropped it, it stayed where it was, weighted. Satisfied that it wasn’t going anywhere, she moved on.

As she turned the corner she looked back, seeing Amphibinog following her. The creature’s small eyes tracking her. It crawled into the maze opening behind her, its mouth cracked open. That scaled tongue weaving from side to side, tasting the air.

Well then, no retreating now. Not without being eaten.

Where there's a will

It was after midnight when Fred Berkshire arrived in Hathersage, with Max as his passenger. To his annoyance, he’d been demoted to driving the ice-cream van again. Despite the ongoing evacuation, the outskirts of the town were packed with vehicles. Emergency response teams, news crews, sightseers milled in the dark streets. He had to leave the van parked Argana-style on a verge that wasn’t wide enough for it, the boxy rear end imposing on the hedgerow. Walking briskly into the town, he passed a coachload of people with placards declaring the End Times. Max trotted close by, ears twitching.

And then came the blockade, beams carried on trestles, dark figures manning it. The floodlights turned outward, blinding him to whoever or whatever might be there. He shielded his eyes with his hand, trying to make out the hill beyond the barricade. A semicircle of sky was blocked out in pure darkness, no stars visible. That had to the black globe. Shrugging, he strode confidently toward it, and the blinding spotlights in the way. Max peeled off from him, finding his own way through, sticking to the shadows.

A priest blocked his path, standing squarely on the other side of the immobile barrier. If it weren’t for the man’s dog collar, he could have been a bouncer. Fred wasn’t by any means a small man, but this priest towered over him, and bore the kind of shoulders that have to go through doors sideways. He couldn’t have looked any more the part if he’d been cracking his knuckles.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he said, cracking his knuckles. Clearly, a man with little originality in his soul.

Fred tapped his uniform badge.

“I’m with the police,” he said, “for the straightforward reason that I am the police.”

“Go away little man. This is the parag- the para - this is para-ghost-ica business.”

“Ah, the Paragnostica. Of course,” said Fred, dredging his mind for everything he knew about them. Not much, as it happened. Until Argana had told him about the Fae Wars, Father MacGillycuddy had been just the old kook they rolled out to give ghosts a clip around the ear every now and again. Then he’d turned out to be a - whatever he was in the organisation. Higher than this mook, that’s for sure.

“That’s what I said.” The mook folded his arms, thick as a wrestler’s thighs.

“I’m sure Father MacGillycuddy is very pleased at your diligence in keeping his site safe,” Fred said amiably. “The next time I see old- me old mate ‘Cudders, I’ll put in a good word for you, there’s a good lad.”

He reached out to tap the man good naturedly on the shoulder, then thought better of it. If the brute had judo training, he would dislocate Fred’s arm before he’d finished parsing the sentence.

“Cudders…” The man’s heavy brows came together. Fred could almost hear them shifting. “That’s not proper. You can’t talk about MacGillycuddy like that.”

Aware that other people were starting to notice them and come over, Fred’s throat went dry. The trouble with trying to outwit someone was that they had to have wits to be outed in the first place.

Two identical sisters, middle aged women who exuded an aura of grey, were approaching. And behind them someone… Fred rubbed his eyes. He thought for a moment that they were a plain looking young woman in a black jumpsuit. But, now that he squinted, she wasn’t. Her nose was snubbed and wide, flared into a circle, and tusks protruded to either side of it, curling up. The ears were high and conical, near her temples, and her jaw slung forward and low.

“Goblin!” Fred pointed at her. “Pig-Goblin!” He was sure Argana would have known the proper word for it, but he didn’t know his kobold from his cockatrice, nor his boggart from his bugbear, and right now he didn’t care either.

The matching women paused in their stride, exchanging identical wary glances.

The pig woman gestured at her body with two hairy arms.

“He can see me!”

“Uh? She’s just a girl, like any other girl.” If the grunt’s brow ridges got any more furrowed, they were going to become the sort of trench you sent submersibles down.

The twins stepped toward him, tilting their heads in opposite directions but at the same angle.

“How did you do that?”

“I’m not standing for it,” the hulking priest said, closing the gap. “You calling a pretty girl a gobbo. Is not right.”

He took a swing, his arm trailing over Fred’s head as he ducked. He swerved out of the way of the next haymaker, but he was running out of space. His grasping hand caught Fred by his tie. The clip-on came away in his hand.

“It’s an insult!” bellowed the priest.

“For sure!” The boar-headed girl trotted forward, a look of amusement tugging up the corners of her elongated mouth. “Pig Goblin. Insult, when he should have known I’m a Moccusite. The chosen of Moccus.”

“Eh?”

The big lummox paused, grasping Fred’s shirt with one hand, his other balled into a posed fist.

Placing their tiny hands-on opposite shoulders of the giant, the twins spoke sternly.

“He has the faesight. Put him down.”

“The what now?” asked the priest.

The chosen of Moccus rolled her eyes.

“More to the point, how did he get it?”

A heated and confused discussion followed, the finer points of which - and the broader ones too - escaped Fred, because he wasn’t listening. He was waiting for his moment. And the instant the priest let go of him, he took it, dodging through the barricade and running flat out for the ominous black dome. But now that he knew what the faesight did for him, peeling away glamour, there was something he just had to try.

There were more people coming. Shouts, yells. Priests and acolytes alike on intercept courses with him, far more than he could fight or outwit. A swift shape, fleeting and dodging parallel to him, had to be Max catching up again. He kept running, too fast now to stop or swerve, his legs propelling him to an unavoidable collision with the glistening black globe.

Fred leapt over the arms of a particularly speedy priest. The man had gone for a rugby tackle, tripping at the last moment on the hem of his tussock. It was all too close for comfort. As was the glistening black hemisphere, three hundred metres across, so dark it seemed to actively suck light into it. As he and Max hurtled toward it, there was one thing that he could see that their collection of pursuers couldn’t.

A gap.

Picked out in his vision with a glow that he felt rather than saw, an imperfection in the dome. It was just wide enough to admit, say, a six-foot man and a dog.

“Max!”

He swerved at the last moment, turning his shoulders sideways, and dove into the gap. Where he touched it, the texture was oily and slick, as if made of some grim new kind of jelly. It swallowed up the daylight completely until he could see nothing.

Max pressed up against his leg and he took hold of the animal’s collar to guide him.

The blackness was so impenetrable it looked lighter with his eyes shut. He moved through it the only way he could, one shuffling toe-length step after another. Max padded silently alongside him, the dog’s presence only known through the warm pressure of his shoulder against the police officer’s knee. At first the only sensations that met his outstretched hands were blubbery, oily touches of whatever he was passing through. But those gave way to harder objects. Walls, scaffold poles. And then, suddenly, curtain. It swayed, a glimmer of light beneath it. At least the theatre was still standing, and he was apparently backstage.

Inhaling a deep breath and shaking the tension out of his shoulders, he undid the catch on his baton. In the tiny amount of light under the curtain he could see the two glinting reflections that were Max’s eyes. Turned up toward him, waiting. He willed the animal to stay quiet and listened.

“The, er, that is… prepare yourselves for a show to, um, end all shows. I’ll bet you’ve never seen anything like it…”

It was Melvyn’s voice that he heard, shaky, robbed of all the magician’s usual confidence. At least he was still alive. Wanting to see what was happening, Fred walked his fingers steadily across the curtains until he found the point where the two met. He made the tiniest gap in them. As the light dug into his eyeballs it was all he could do not to gasp at the sudden, stabbing brightness.

Hazily, he saw the theatre interior. He was behind the stage, looking out toward the seating. Props and pieces of scenery stood out ahead of him. There were lights pointed at the stage, accounting for the dazzling pain. There might be an audience beyond them, some glints of reflected light on spectacles, but he couldn’t be sure. And on the stage, between him and the audience, two figures. Both with their backs to him. One, the hunched form of Melvyn, fearfully trying to make himself smaller. The other, twice the height of a human, the unmistakable hammer-headed bulk of Balor-El.

An oath upon the Emerald Shard

Some twenty odd turns later, and a good five hundred metres into the bargain, Argana Zeit reached the centre of the maze. It had been difficult, yes, but not as difficult as it should have been. She’d followed the colour gradient of the ceiling. They wanted her to get there and put her on her guard. Stepping around the final corner, she saw the Fae Queen. Nuala reclined on a decadent chair beside a small tumbling brook, all incongruously embedded in the rough concrete of the maze. The Queen had changed for the occasion, wearing a brocaded maxi-dress in burgundy and orange. Her hair, which had been auburn at the canal stop, now heaped in raven-black curls around her sharp features.

“Hello”, she purred, without rising.

Argana offered no greeting in return. Planting her hands on her hips, she squared off.

“Ok, I’m here. Release the children.”

The Queen stood up, smiling unpleasantly.

“Poor, dear child,” she cooed. “Did you take me at my word?”

Argana looked aghast, but only for show. She’d never expected Nuala to keep her promise. Not without some coercion.

“Here’s the new deal…” continued Nuala. “Once you’re bored of not getting out again, you give up to me. You become my servant.”

“In Arcadia?” Argana asked, for an instant entertaining the idea. The number of humans who had been to the Fae Realm could be counted on one hand, and none of them could be described as a reliable witness. She did have her curiosity to think of, after all. It needed to be fed regularly.

The notion was dashed before it could come to fruition. Nuala shook her head, scoffing.

“Of course not! There is plenty of work on Earth. And we can always do with more bodies with which to pay our tithe to Hell. It’s overdue, you know.”

A crashing sound behind her made Argana jump in alarm. She she already believed that the frogshark was following her, and here was the proof. Careening around the corner, it smashed into the crystals growing from the concrete, scattering shards across the floor. It panted, leaning against the wall, leering with its thousand and one teeth on full display. Listing like a bulldog that had been at the cider.

Nuala stood up from her sofa, her expression gloating. Her ankle wobbled as she did, as if she were wearing heels for the first time.

“Ah, my pet, my…” she sounded genuinely concerned as she tottered toward the animal, swaying. “There’s something wrong!”

“So there is.” Argana took a couple of steps toward the monstrosity, still leaning against the wall and panting hard. Its two eyes were having trouble tracking her. It sweated, backing away from her.

“My turn to give you a deal,” said Argana, with a smile of her own. “I get back out of this maze, you let the children go and you give me safe passage wherever I want to go.”

“And if you don’t, then you’re my servant?”

“Willingly!”

The Queen laughed, her mouth opening into a maw full of needles, frighteningly inhuman.

“Done! There’s something you should know, though. Your little trick with the bread brums. Um, Breadcrumbs. I had Amphibinog here follow you the whole time. Every single thing you dropped, he ate.”

On cue, the frogshark burped, then ran its gnarled tongue over its lips.

“That’s cheating. I’m shocked,” said Argana, deadpan.

“You think?” The Queen waggled a finger at her. “Haha, wait till you see this!” She clapped her hands above her head, just once, and then had to steady herself with a hand on the frogshark as she regained her balance.

At once the wall began to shift, the sound heavy and grating. The dusty smell of pounded rock followed them. The junction Argana had just come through closed itself off. Two whole slabs turned through ninety degrees, opening new avenues of exploration. The frogshark was more startled than she was. She almost felt sorry for the thing as it toppled onto its side, flailing.

“Oh dear. Whatever shall I do?” she said, sarcastically.

“I don’t shink you’re in a… I don’t bink. I…” The Queen staggered sideways, putting an arm out to steady herself. Her face, unused to expressing surprise, pulled several sets of muscles before it found the right ones.

Argana walked toward her, clutching something in her folded hand.

“You don’t look well,” she said, with mock concern. “Before I walk out of here, let me show you what your pet has been eating.”

The Queen cocked her head on one side, unable to focus her eyes.

Argana opened her hand, revealing the last morsel of bread, a hunk the size of a plum.

“Your frog shark thing has been eating these. You’re, like, soul bonded or something, aren’t you? Something that affects it affects you. See the thing is, I never believe you meant your word, and I never trusted that thing either.”

The Fae Queen was becoming harder to focus on, as if her edges were badly drawn. She’d given up leaning on the wall for support and slumped back to her chaise longue.

“You wanna see what’s in this breadcrumb?” Argana pinched the bread with her other hand, prising it open.

Inside, shiny and black, was one of the ball bearings.

“Iron,” she said. “An iron ball in every breadcrumb. Your pet here swallows without chewing, you know, so it never suspected. But now, well, I’d guess that reaction is something like allergic. You fae, you’re not good with iron.”

The Queen clutched a hand to her swelling throat.

“You’ll kill me!”

“I doubt that. But I am getting out of here. And you’ve already taken my deal. You going to uphold it this time?”

“I… my throat. My eyes! What’s happening to me?”

“Iron poisoning. Of course, you could always go fishing.” Argana pulled a length of string from her backpack. She tied a fridge magnet to it, a horseshoe-shaped one. It was one of the few things that had escaped the fire, and she’d been carrying around like a charm ever since.

Grinning malevolently, she held it out to the Queen. “You get knife-chops here to open his gob and you play a game of Hungry Hippos for your life.”

Nuala got her eyes going the same way, zeroing in on the object dangling from her hand. Fear and desperation wrestled for control of her face.

“What … you want?” she croaked.

“For starters, you took something from me. Give it back.”

Her hands trembling, the queen fumbled at her dress pockets. Held out the ceramic lighter, it’s embossed scarab twinkling. Argana snatched it from her.

“And now, I believe you and I made a deal.”

Nuala nodded weekly. “I’ll… uphold the deal. Your deal.”

“Swear it!” demanded Argana, holding the magnet just out of reach.

“I swear on my honour.”

Argana laughed bitterly.

“No. Swear on something that means something.”

“I swear on the Septarch Crown of Arcadia. Upon the Conclave of Shadows. Upon the Umbral Heart of the Emerald Shard. By the Unseelie Throne…”

“That’ll do.” Argana tossed her the magnet. It crossed the air between them like a comet, its string forming the tail.

Without thinking, Nuala grabbed it from the air, and instantly dropped it. The flesh of her palm steamed, and she yelped with pain.

“Hold it by the string, silly,” said Argana. “Happy fishing.”

“You’re still trapped here!”

“You think?”

Argana walked away, her smile born upon the wings of smugness. But less so of confidence. She had bested the Fae Queen but had yet to deal with the maze. Nothing would hint her return journey, and Amphibinog had eaten the trail she’d left. And, of course, the walls had moved.

Front row seats

Fred Berkshire remained behind the curtain, holding his breath. From his vantage point at the back of the stage he could see much of the inside of the Memorial Hall. Nearly a day should have passed, but it didn’t seem that it had. That wasn’t a problem. It was easy enough to believe that a dome that swallowed light could swallow time too. What he couldn’t figure out that was why Balor-El seemed to be gearing up to put on a one-monster performance, but that was clearly what the fiend intended to do.

Melvyn Drake stood at a lectern to one side. He had his back to Fred, but his body language was readable. Nervous, but trying to hide it. As a police officer, Fred saw that a lot.

And at this moment, Melvyn was announcing the demon king to the audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen, gentlefolk, otherworldly monstrosities… prepare to put your hands together. Or claws or hooves if you have them. We present, for one night only…  He’s inimitable, indomitable, invincible… He’s the one-time King of the Fomor, now the man who will have you begging for more… give it all up for Balor-El!”

Balor-El stepped toward the audience, taking a bow. His heavy arms swept out to either side, each grasping a puppeteer’s rig from which a puppet dangled. Applause met him, and the lights swung to show the audience.

Fred almost wished they hadn’t.

There were pensioners in the audience, cardigan-clad and glassy eyed, staring ahead with lost or befuddled expressions. But they were in the minority. Raucous, sharp-featured imps outnumbered them, red eyes glittering, clattering their spiked hands together in a mockery of clapping.

Seated dead centre, their gilded throne planted in the aisle, was a human, or someone who looked like one. Slicked hair. The sort of high, androgenous cheekbones of that made Fred nervous of using his go-to ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’. ‘Citizen’ would normally be his go-to in these circumstances, but that implied statehood. And he wouldn’t bet so much as a penny that they were from this world, let alone this country.

They wore a costume of exquisite yellow and gold, with more braid and tapestry then your above average haberdashery. Clearly, their tailor had once asked them ‘would you rather wear the world’s finest suit, or the world’s most divine robes?’, and they’d simply answered ‘yes’. But it was their eyes, at once piercing and delirious, that made Fred shudder.

He saw all this in an instant, as the lights swung away from the stage, showing him the crowd. For all his misgivings, he wasn’t going to let the moment slip away un-seized. In that brief cover of darkness, he slipped away from the curtain, running as far forward as he dared. He took quick, low strides that wouldn’t rattle the equipment on his belt and in his pockets. Just as the lights swung back to Balor-El on the stage, Fred reached the cover of a wooden cut-out tree. He crouched behind it, baton still in hand, waiting for his next chance. Max, smaller and faster, had snuck under the sound desk close to Melvyn.

His heart thundered, beating in his ears. He didn’t dare peek around the fake tree with all those imps staring at the stage, but he could see the shadow that Balor-El and his puppets cast against the wall and ceiling. The monster was acting out a pantomime, doing the accents.

“Pinocchio used to be a real boy,” boomed Balor-El, in a voice that would have made a foghorn blush. It rattled the stage rig in the ceiling above, so that dust rained down.

Too much dust. It ticked Fred’s nose, Panicking, he suppressed the sneeze by pinching his nose. He let go of the bag to do so. It toppled over on its side, not quite out of the shadow of the tree. Then, ever so slowly, the strap settled, lowering itself into the line of sight of the demons.

“It’s behind you!” called out a voice made of silver bells and confidence, undoubtedly of the being clad in yellow, the one enthroned in the centre of the audience.

“We haven’t got to that bit,” complained Balor-El, lowering his puppets so that they sank to their knees.

“He’s behind you!” the imps took up the chorus, almost drowned out by their own snickering.

Two titanic footfalls rang out on the stage, the kind that require a carpenter’s attention later. A clawed hand the size of a forklift smashed away the tree in a cloud of splinters and spiralling fragments. Fred hunkered down, flinching in the glare of Balor-El’s single, woeful eye.

“He’s behind you!” rang out the imps again.

“Oh no he isn’t…” Fred managed weakly. It didn’t help. One giant fist had him by the throat, lifting from the floor, his baton spinning from his grasp. Flailing with his foot he caught the backpack by the strap so that it was dragged across the stage with him.

“Look what I’ve got!” bellowed Balor-El.

“Is this part of the play?” They-who-were-clad-in-yellow asked loudly of the imp next to them. The imp just cackled.

“Um, no.” When Balor-El shrugged, he moved like a tractor with hiccups, shaking Fred into a daze.

“Then put the interloper down here,” the yellow-clad gestured to the seat next to them, “and get on with the damn show.”

Fred got the very definite impression that Balor-El would rather rip him to pieces like a dog with a cushion, so he put up no resistance when the demon reluctantly complied. He now had a front row seat to this strange show. To his other side an imp leered at him, licking the edges of its chitinous beak. He hoped it was just because it had a huge bucket of popcorn in its lap.

“I say, young man, would you like one of these?”

Fred had to crane his neck to see who was talking. An elderly man on the seat behind him - one of Melvyn’s original audience members, he guessed - leaned over the chair, offering a plastic bag full of translucent black-and-beige sweets. The man didn’t make eye contact. Fred wasn’t sure that he could, his eyes were glassy, as if a layer of film was drifting over them. They might have been cataracts, were it not for the fact that film swirled.

“Pay attention,” said the person in the throne. There was a word for sitting in a throne, thought Fred. Monarch. “You’ve caused enough trouble.”

On the stage Balor-El raised his mighty arms again, the puppets dangling from the rigs in his grasp.

“Now, before I was interrupted with such vulgarity… where was I?”

“He’s losing the room,” the Monarch whispered to Fred, hiding his mouth with one elegant hand. On the row behind them, Imps booed and hissed.

Fred nodded. He didn’t know what else to do. And then, to add to his climbing sense of unease, he noticed something that struck the fear of Shiva into him.

Those wasn’t puppets that Balor-El was holding up. They were people. Glassy eyed like the old man behind them, their hands, feet and waists tied and suspended by chains of gossamer. Bands around their heads titled them this way and that as the demon turned their rigs.

He gasped involuntarily.

The Monarch, watching him, peeled back their lips in a grin that revealed perfectly symmetrical teeth. “Now you’re getting it,” they said in their chiming voice.

Fred glanced around. Back in the Green Dragon, a mere day ago, Melvyn had said he was performing to a full house. But, even counting Balor’s two puppets, he couldn’t see more than six humans in the building. A queasy sensation built in his stomach at the possibilities.

“Everyone who was here… the people… what did you…”

“Oh?” asked the Monarch, touching two fingers to their heart. “Did you think I ate them?”

Fred swallowed.

“No, that’s more his style.” They pointed at the stage, where Balor was still swinging two hapless pensioners from puppet rigs.

Fred rose angrily from his seat, but the Monarch caught him by the arm, pulling him back down again.

“I’m joking, of course,” they said. “I’m saving them for later. They’re locked in the basement.”

“If I may ask—” Fred’s question was interrupted by the imp on the other side of him, clutching his arm with its sharp pincers. He turned, finding himself staring into its armoured beak. Rancid yellow eyes stared at him.

“You, Earth-born, will use the proper form of address! Have some respect!”

He glared at the imp. What he’d seen of them in the audience, their chittering, noisy interactions, didn’t lead him to believe that respect was a major component of their personality. He kept on staring. The imp cracked first, looking away, cackling to itself. It didn’t care what he said. It had just wanted to wind him up.

“Don’t mind my entourage,” said the Monarch, causing him to turn his head back. “They’re harmless. For now. They’ll kill you later, of course, but not until Balor’s finished his play.”

“Yeah, about that…”

“Ah, of course, you’re surprised that a being of such unbridled animosity as Balor would want to appear in a play. I don’t think his heart’s in it, to be honest. But when I heard he’d manifested in a theatre, in the middle of a performance… well, it was too funny a chance to pass up.”

“You’re playing with him!” Fred gasped.

“A creature like Balor, when he gets summoned somewhere, he takes on a bit of the ethos of that place. It’ll wear off. But in the meantime, he gets to earn his freedom by entertaining me,” the Monarch said with a shrug.

On the stage, the demon was waving his puppets at each other in mock combat.

“A plague on both your houses, for you shall make worms-meat of me!” bellowed Balor-El, in what he clearly thought was a Warwickshire accent. Fred didn’t think they did a lot of gargling cement and brimstone in Warwick.

Anyway, he was more alarmed at the actions. The demon had contrived for one of his puppets to hold a rapier, which was now swishing the air in front of him. Uncontrolled as it was, it was clearly going to impale the other living puppet within seconds.

Fred stood up again. The imp made another grab for him. This time he was ready, pivoting hard at the waist. Punching. The creature’s head snapped back, and it slumped from its chair, dazed. He caught the bucket of popcorn as it fell from the imp’s grasp. There was a dangerous silence. The Monarch’s thin smile. The rest of the imps, thirty or more of them, all staring at him. Smiling, he took a bow. It was what they needed, bursting into laughter.

“What is this interruption?” growled Balor-El, from the stage.

The gap between the stage and the front row seemed enormous. Fred was dwarfed by it, feeling the eyes behind him boring into his back. Melvyn, at the lectern, silently mouthed the words ‘what are you doing?’ He gave him a wink.

Balor-El stopped mid exclamation, the puppets dangling limply, his great eye blinking, bubbling with malice. He flung the puppets aside. Came to stand at the edge, glaring down at the policeman, huge fists on his hips. The discarded puppets shook themselves out of their daze and crawled to the edges. Max licked the woman’s face, then gripped her jacket, helping to pull her under his bench.

“This, this is all wrong. Stop the play!” Fred demanded. He threw a fistful of popcorn over his shoulder. “I’m acting theatre critic Mr Berkshire, by the power invested in me by the 1984 Police and Criminal Evidence Act. And I say this play is a disaster.”

Balor-El jumped down from the stage, the theatre echoing with his landing. His hand flashed out, catching Fred by the neck, hoisting him off his feet. Fred clung onto the giant forearm with both hands, trying to carry his own weight. Black flickered at the edges of his vision. Stars sparked and danced in his vision. He fought to prise the giant fingers away, but his arms were getting heavier by the heartbeat.

Dimly, he perceived that the room had gone quiet once more. The Monarch in yellow rose from their throne. They clapped slowly, sarcastically. Sensing blood, the imps joined them.

“I tire of your show, Balor-El, the once mighty. You cannot control your audience, your script is a pastiche, and your accents are implausible.”

“I- give me another chance!” begged the demon, a mountain pleading mercy from the sea.

It did no good. In a swirl of yellow brocade that left glitter hanging in the air, the Monarch was striding away, taking half of the imps with them. Balor-El bellowed in anguish as his audience vanished through the double doors at the end of the aisle, leaving them swinging.

That monstrous single eye, curdled with malice, swung upon Fred. But his growled command was for the remaining imps. “Bring me a table!”

Imps scurried out of the audience, hauling folded tables from the side of the stage. Lacking any kind of cooperation, it took them several attempts to get one open and set up. Several of them trapped their skinny limbs in hinges in the process.

“You,” growled Balor-El, holding Fred close to his barbarous face, “I’m going to kill you.”

Fred drew in what was likely to be his last breath “Nobody… likes … a… critic.”

“Sacrifice! Sacrifice! Sacrifice!” chanted the remaining imps.

Grinning savagely, Balor-El slammed the police officer onto the table and pinned him there with both hands.

“Now bring me a sword!” he demanded.

Lighting the way

The moment she was out of sight of the inebriated Fae Queen and her loathsome pet, Argana slumped against the wall. The adrenaline caught up with her, making her knees week and her stomach wobbly. Worse yet, despite all her attempts to ignore it, the reality of her situation was dawning on her. She was trapped underground in a magical maze of unknown size, with no clear way to get out. How long would it take to die of starvation? She wished Max was with her, with his superior sense of direction. Perhaps he’d even be able to smell his way out, seeking for fresher air.

The ceiling appeared to be solid, a featureless orange-pink dish an unknown distance above her. But, given how many other things in this space seemed to be illusory, it could be the night sky clad in glamour. It was a thin hope, but it was something. She pulled her phone out to check for a signal. There wasn’t. But there was something better.

“That’s what's been eating the battery!” The echo of her own voice startled her.

Up at Lawrence’s Field, days earlier, she’d activated the gyroscopic tracker app ‘Dead or Reckoner’. Apparently, she’d never turned it off again. It had tracked every move she’d made in the days since. Not by satellites, which had been blocked by the tunnel, but by the dead reckoning of measuring every turn and acceleration. No wonder the thing had been running flat in double time.

Pinching her fingers on the screen, she brought up a diagram of her route. It wasn’t exactly a map - it had no image because it didn’t know where she was. But it did have a long, squiggly line that was everywhere she’d walked in the last three days. Zooming into the end of the diagram, she tried to make sense of it. Two long straight lines, each around a kilometre, were where she’d first entered Grindleford tunnel and then, at right angles to it, taken the canal boat to the terminus. There was some wiggling on the terminus, where she’d first spoken to Nuala, followed by a whole set of short journeys with right angle turns between them. That was when she’d gone through the maze the first time.

The maze had changed since she’d come through, so she couldn’t just retrace her steps. But she could track her position with the app. She dropped a pin on the map, for where she’d entered the maze. Feeling smug, she started walking. If the battery held out, she’d be fine.

Several minutes later, and as many wrong turns, Argana emerged in the terminus room, in all its vaulted glory. The arched doorways, many times her height, stood with their glittery portals. The central canal was empty, the dog-faced elf having taken the narrowboat away again.

“Hello!” she called out, her voice echoing. No one replied. She was alone.

Once again, she checked her phone for a signal. This time it was dead. Not just the signal, but the phone itself, the battery having given its last to get her out of the maze.

“As the boat’s gone, I’m going to have to use one of you beauties,” she said to the doors.

That the mosaics around the portals hadn’t changed was a relief. After the maze, she hadn’t known what to expect. She approached the doorway that Patty had taken, the one with rural scenes around it. But it didn’t ripple for her. The void within glittered and shimmered, like a billion fireflies caught in black amber, but it didn’t welcome her. Her skin itched. The closer she got, the worse it was. She could smell ozone.

“I don’t think it likes me, Max,” she said reflexively, before she remembered the dog wasn’t with her.

“Ok, Mr Door, what would convince you to let me through?”

She took a few steps back so she could think without her skin itching. Already she had raked red lines into her neck and forearms with her fingernails, and she didn’t want to draw blood. There were no levers, switches, or keyholes that she could see, although it would be impossible to find them if they were intentionally hidden among the filigree and carvings.

A lapping sound came from far off down the tunnel toward the railway line, accompanied by a light. The Narrowboat returning. Instinctively, she didn’t want the pilot to find her. His loyalty would be to his duped queen. Even if she could persuade him to take her to the railway, the boat would never outrun Nuala once she returned to her senses.

The light wavered slightly. A lamp, hung from the bow. Old fashioned, six sided, a flame flickering within it.

It reminded her of the lighter she was carrying, that Patty had first given her. She fetched it from her pocket. The square zippo with its raised scarab. Holding in front of her like a priest wielding a crucifix against a particularly gullible vampire, she pushed toward the door. A tense hum rose in her ears. The lighter jumped and wiggled in her hand like a thing alive. It shook so hard it was all she could do to hold on to the thing.

Still the portal remained smooth as glass. The itching intensified so much she could hear it, an oscillating high-pitched wail in her skull.

The lighter squirmed in her hand. Its carved relief scarab beetle detached itself, crawling over her knuckles, its little pin legs pricking her.

And then it leapt.

It tumbled through the portal, disappearing into the swirl of sparkly darkness. The doorway became alive all at once, its surface rippling, sparks of light dancing under its surface. Moving in unseen eddies. The stars-in-darkness swayed toward her, wanting to swallow her up.

There on the threshold she paused.

Was it what she wanted? Patty would have gone back to Trotterwell, so that’s where this door would take her. But her friends, and Balor-El, were at Hathersage.

She stepped back, looking at the other portals. The rippling field of stars calmed itself, no longer reaching eagerly for her. None of the others went obviously to the Peak District, or even obviously to this world.

The statue continued to stalk toward her, one arm stretched ahead of it, the other trailing the two-handed sword. The tip dragged along the floor with an awful sound, scoring the marble as it went. That made it either unreasonably heavy, or unreasonably sharp, and she didn’t want to hang around to find out which.

She looked hastily at the mosaics by the other archways. The mosaic of demons caught her eye. Frolicking monsters with horns and caricatured faces. Gods willing, it would take her to Balor-El, and Berkshire too. It could as easily take her to Hell.

Stumbling to a halt, the statue swung the sword at her. Just far enough not to cleave her in twain, close enough to make her wonder what exactly twain meant. The automaton staggered in a three-sixty, barely able to control its weapon.

“Ok, ok, I get the message!”

Before it could ready itself for another strike, she pulled the lighter from her pocket and sprang toward the portal.

Stars and darkness enveloped her, streaks of light, the sensation that she was elastic. Stretchy like blue putty, in that, pulled far enough, it becomes frayed and fibrous. And at that stretched-too-far point, flashes of light shot through her mind. The unholy child of a first-class migraine and a psychedelic star gate, the kind they put in 60s movies.

If she was lucky, there’d be a way back on the other side. If she was even luckier, the lighter would act as her ticket back if she’d made a mistake.

Still clutched in her hand, the lighter disintegrated, shattering into a myriad of spiralling fragments. It was the last thing she knew before she winked out of existence.

Wakey, wakey

Judith never carried a phone. She’d had one once, but it had always been troublesome, having to take her gardening gloves off to make it quit with its stupid pinging and chirping. There was one in the house though, wall mounted, like in old TV shows. It was just inside the hall, through the house’s side door with its rattling single-glazing.

“Hello, Tony here. That you, Judy?”

“You won’t believe it. They’ve only gone and done it! The kids are waking up, Tony! They’re waking up!”

“The kids? The ones from the cabbage patch? That’s amazing!”

“I have nooo idea what to do with them. I was hoping you could—”

“I’m on my way.”

“Oh, thank you!””

“Have you rung the police yet? The hospital?”

“No…”

“I know you like to do everything yourself when you can, or with your mates when you can’t, but you really should let them know. They’re going to need to be involved.”

Judith sucked in a breath. She never enjoyed having her faults pointed out, even when they were strengths most of the time. But Tony was right.

Minutes later, having fought her way through the police switchboard, she was on the phone with Inspector Cianciolo.

“Is anyone with you?” the inspector asked.

“No, it’s just me. Tony’s on his way.”

“Are the children safe?”

Judith walked as far away from the wall as the coiled phone cable would allow her. Through the door panel she could see the barn, end on, and a couple of shapes moving inside it. The other way, Elmo was still picking sweet peas from the bamboo rig.

“Yes, but I need to get back to them.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

She went back out.

“You ok there?” She waved at Elmo. He smiled back at her, his mouth smudged with blackberry juice. He looked younger now that he had a face, she thought.

“Ok, stay put. I’m going to go help the others.”

The giant cabbages inside the barn were in various states of disintegration. The one closest to the door, which had been Elmo’s, was completely burst open. Already wilting, green ooze trickled from its base. The liquid ran across the concrete floor and into the drain that ran lengthways through the building. The one behind that was also open and empty, although less decayed. She couldn’t see where the occupant had gone.

The two after that, the teenagers inside them turned fitfully as if struggling to wake from a fearful dream. From the last two pods there was no movement.

“Hello? Are you still here?” she called out.

There was no answer, but stepping around the second cabbage, she saw a teenage girl in the space between it and the wall. She sat with her back against the wall, her legs drawn up close so that her chin rested on her knees. Her clothes and hair were matted with green slime, like she’d fallen in a stagnant pond, and didn’t smell much different. Her lips were blue, and her wide eyes met Judith’s, but she said nothing.

“Oh, you poor child.” Judith knelt in front of her, dabbing at the teenager’s face with a length of hessian. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

She tried to read the girl’s lips as they moved soundlessly. Emma, perhaps, or Anna.

Then the child in the next vegetable chamber was groaning, thrashing. Green liquid bubbled from their container. Although his eyes were still shut, he looked panicked.

“Hold on!”

She threw open a metal cupboard at the end of the room, where a veritable catalogue of gardening tools were arrayed neatly on individual pegs. Taking an edging tool, she went back to help the child out. It was curved like a horseshoe, a one side blade she was able to hook into the plant matter without risking slicing the child. She tugged, sawing away at it. The boy spluttered, and more green goo poured onto the floor of the shed.

“Help me… I’m… cold,” croaked Emma-or-Anna, finding her voice.

“Damn it, I will in a second!” snapped Judith. There was too much to do, and it all had to be done at once.

The shed door swung in and there was Tony, Paul running down the path behind him. She hadn’t even heard their car arrive.

“That one,” she said, nodding with her head, as her hands were full. “Help that one.”

“On it.”

Tony settled down next to the girl, talking softly to her. He had a thermos with him, pouring a little tea and lifting it to her lips.

One last effort on Judith’s part and the plant she was working on erupted open, spraying her with gunk. The boy half staggered, half slipped out of its slimy embrace, tendrils still wrapped around his arms. She caught him and lowered him gently to the floor. He blinked his eyes open, rubbing them free of sap. She smoothed his wet hair back from his forehead.

“It’s going to be ok.”

It would be. Tony and Paul were here to help, and in the distance she caught the first notes of Cianciolo’s police siren.

Puppets ahoy!

Fred Berkshire strove with both hands to shift just one of Balor-El’s heavy arms but couldn’t do it. The sea demon’s giant paw pinned him squirming to the table. The table would give before that iron grip ever did. With his other hand, the monster received a curved sword that the imps brought him.

Melvyn watched on from his lectern, terror marked on his face.

“Shall I, er, announce the… consecration of his soul to yourself, Your Aquatic Majesty?”

“Yes.” The Fomorian King’s voice was like gravel in ice, a glacier crushing and smoothing everything in its path.

Fred couldn’t catch his friend’s eye, his line of sight was blocked by a sudden movement of the demon’s right arm, raising the blade. He had to hope that Melvyn had returned closer to his right mind, was playing for time.

“The Fomorian God King—” started Melvyn, before Balor-El swung his one ominous eye on him, interrupting.

“Demon. Demon King.”

“Yes, my lord. The- ahem- Fomorian Demon King…”

As Melvyn launched clumsily into his spiel, Fred bucked with his whole body, like a fish trying to flap its way off a boat. It didn’t get him out of the demon’s grip. He hadn’t expected it to, but it got him closer to the edge of the folding table. Keeping his left arm straining against the demon’s grip - he had to keep up the appearance of a struggle - he let his right arm drop over the edge of the table. Twisting his hand painfully, he scrabbled, searching for a release mechanism.

“…Will crush the unworthy body of…”

“Wait! Stop that!” yelled the faux demon.

Fred froze. But Balor-El wasn’t talking to him.

“Don’t call him unworthy. This mortal banished me from the realm with a weapon of elemental power. Big him up, or I look weak!”

Weapon of elemental power. If he hadn’t been quite so imminently about to die, that description of the taser would have been amusing. His questing hand found a lever on the underside of the table. It was at an awkward angle. At his first attempt to shift it, his hand slipped off, grazing his knuckles.

“…Will now eviscerate the elemental warrior and enforcer of the laws of the realm, Berkshire the Constable!”

The sword plunged. The lever gave. The table twisted.

Fred fell rolling to the floor. Balor-El, suddenly unbalanced, tripped over him, letting go of both policeman and blade.

At once Fred grabbed up the sword, backing onto the stage. A metre and a half long, with a jewelled pommel, it was unwieldy for a mere human. Even gripping it two-handed, he could barely lift the thing, and had no illusions that he could slay the monster with it. The best he could hope for was that projecting a fighting stance with it would stop Balor-El from rushing him.

The crowd gasped. There were cheers and boos from the audience of imps.

“Why are you so intent on ruining my play!?” roared Balor-El, moving relentlessly closer.

“No, my lord,” interrupted Melvyn, the fear audible in his voice. “This is the second act, where you suffer a setback, which will make your killing of him shortly all the more triumphant!”

For a long, horrible moment, Balor-El’s eye blazed, the anger within simmering. Then, just slightly, he nodded his assent.

“With his prey fled and his sacrifice thwarted - at least for now - the demon king brooded in his high tower,” announced Melvyn.

While Balor-El brooded theatrically for his audience, Fred dropped the sword and scarpered. Weaving his way through the scenery to the backstage area. If there’d been a land speed record for fastest crawling, he would have broken it.

He took up a vantage point near the gap in the curtains, spying Max along the way, the dog still hiding under a table halfway back on the right hand side of the stage. Max looked for instructions, but Fred shook his head, putting his finger to his lips.

When Melvyn, still standing at the lectern, chanced a look over his shoulder, Fred pulled his torch from his belt, blipping it just once to let the magician know where he was. He’d never had much time for charades as a kid, but now he was miming for his life. And everyone else’s. He pointed the light at the humans in the audience. Flicking it quickly to indicate all of them. Then he made a two-hand grasping motion, like a church bell ringer, before hooking his thumb over his shoulder to indicate a direction. Finally, he held his palms vertically just a few centimetres apart, brushing them past each other in a miniature simulacrum of sprinting. Melvyn brows drew together, and his mouth dropped open in confusion. Then he turned back, continuing his story, leaving Fred hoping that he’d communicated successfully.

“…As he crashed through the Hibernian wastes, destroying the cities of the Tuatha De Danu, the Demon Lord of the Fomor took prisoners from among his vanquished enemies...” Melvyn’s voice was stronger than before, injecting drama to his role as narrator.

As for the Demon King, he took great relish stomping from one edge of the stage to the other, knocking the scenery flat as he went. Shakespearean actor he was not.

“But! Prisoners is not all they were. For the mighty Balor, they were also snacks! He took the first of his prisoners - go on, take that one - and hoisted him onto a meat hook to eat later!”

Taking his cue, the monster jumped down from the stage, seizing an audience member. It was Patrin, Melvyn’s mentor, the old man dangling in Balor-El’s huge hands. Bewilderment flickered behind Patrin’s glazed eyes.

Knowing that he had only seconds, Fred worked swiftly in the gloom at the back of the theatre. He flung open the trunk marked ‘pirates’ that he’d seen when he’d arrived. There was a plastic hook for a pirate captain. No use to him. He threw it aside, along with a frock coat and a tricorn. Beneath those was a small anchor. Not a prop, but a metal one. He tied it to one of the ropes hanging from the ceiling. He pitched it as hard as he could, sending it wobbling forward, the other end attached to a track in the ceiling. It wasn’t the neatest throw, but it did the trick.

The Demon King caught it without looking around. Effortlessly he lifted Patrin from the ground, hooking his collar onto the anchor. He reflexively grabbed the rope with both skinny hands, applying the bare minimum of force required to stop himself from choking. Balor-El shoved him mightily, and the rope sped to the back of the stage much faster than it had come.

“Balor-El turned back, grabbing another prisoner!” yelled Melvyn. The demon followed the instructions, drawing his attention away from what happened to the pensioner when he reached the back of the stage.

Which is that Fred caught him, although he was almost knocked over when the top of the rope reached the end of its run and Patrin swung up, like a kid reaching the end of a zipline. Straining, Fred unhooked him. He didn’t have long - he’d already sent another rope forward, and Balor-El was hauling a woman in a mauve cardigan from the third row.

Patrin had the same glassy eyed look that Melvyn had had when Fred first arrived. He shook him by the shoulders to get his attention, turning him toward him.

Sir, I’m Police Constable Fred Berkshire. We’re evacuating the theatre. It’s very important that you follow my instructions. Can you do that for me?”

“Police… Constable?” Patrin asked, nodding slightly.

“Yes. Naturally, as a pillar of the community, you’ll be keen to set an example.”

“Pillar of the community.”

He pulled the curtain aside, steering the old man into the darkness beyond. The space where, with his faesight, he alone could see that there was a passage out.

“Hold your hands ahead of you and walk steadily until you see the light. My colleagues will be waiting to help.”

“Walk steadily…” Patrin repeated, heading into the void behind the theatre, the route that Fred had found through the black globe.

And then the next audience member was there, swinging on the end of a rope, and Fred only just readied himself in time to catch the woman.

Over the next minute, Fred caught and released six audience members. The two who had been puppets, seeing what was happening, had escaped too, running past him. Melvyn was out in front, ad-libbing frantically. But even he, talented as he was, could not keep Balor-El from realising their deception.

The beast crashed to the back of the stage, easily smashing Fred aside. He tore aside the curtain, his blazing eye clearly perceiving the unseen passage beyond. The enraged demon tore down the lighting and rope rigs, scaffolding crashing around it. Chunks of masonry came free as he yanked the rails down, and with them oak beams as thick a railway sleeper.

As debris rained down on him, Fred regretted that his cone helmet had been lost to the helicopter. His replacement cap lacked the same falling masonry resistance. A slab of stone narrowly missed him, smashing through the stage. And then a beam fell across his legs, pinning him in place. A heavy chunk of wood twenty centimetres thick and several metres long, that he couldn’t hope to shift.

All that remained in the audience was the imps who hadn’t left with the Monarch-in-yellow. They took up less than a third of the seats, but you wouldn’t have known it from the amount of noise they made. Whoops and cheers raised what was left of the ceiling.

“You! Betrayed by my own bard!” Balor-El pointed at Melvyn.

The magician trembled, ashen-faced and terrified. He ran, but the imps caught his legs, bringing him to the ground in the aisle. Balor-El, moving with all the time in the world, picked him up. “This time, you’ll be the sacrifice! You like that for a plot twist?”

As he hoisted Melvyn bodily through the air, Max ran out, biting at the demon’s ankles. Balor-El lashed out with a hoof, missing the collie by a hair’s breadth.

“Max! Get back!” yelled Fred. “Come here, boy!”

Max yelped, hopping back from the demon, but not ready to give up. But he was woefully outmatched.

“Come here!”

This time the dog obeyed, running back to Fred. He sniffed at the beam holding the police officer down, tried to budge it with his shoulder. When that failed, he licked Fred’s face. Then lay alongside him, watching the demon with wide eyes.

Imps scuttled forward, again bearing tables with them. The Fomorian waved them away with such enthusiasm that he caught one with his fist, knocking it unconscious.

“No tables,” he growled.

He raised a knee. Held Melvyn aloft with both hands, one grasping his pelvis and the other his shoulder. Ready to break the helpless magician in half.

Trading spaces

The portal spat Argana out with all the excitement of exiting a water slide. But with none of the soft landing. It bowled her through four rows of chairs, scattering chittering obsidian imps. They screamed with surprise and fear. Soon enough they would regroup, already laughing cruelly at each other’s astonishment. She gathered her limbs under herself, coming to a crouch, as she took everything in.  First thing of note:  So far, so good. Her subconscious was banging on the door of her mind with a long list of scrapes, bruises, twinges and bleeds that it wanted to report. She ignored it. All her arms and legs bent in the same places, and only the same places, that they had before she arrived. That was all she needed to know.

There were imps. She’d never been to Hell, wasn’t even sure it was real. But if it was, it would be full of imps. The uneven lines of folding chairs were less of a fit. Stone block walls. Tall Victorian windows. She’d made it through the black dome! This was Hathersage Memorial Hall.

“Whatever now?” growled an inhuman voice, thick with disappointment.

Her eyes flicked up, following it to the stage. She saw them all. The vast bulk of Balor-El, straining the boards beneath him. His swarming acolytes. Berkshire, pinned to the floor by a beam, possibly injured. Max, his ears twitching, hiding under a curtain hem.

And Melvyn, colliding with the wall as Balor-El flung him aside. He hit his head and sagged, becoming a rumpled pile of velvet and corduroy.

If she’d had a plan at all, it had relied on a more subtle entrance. Already the imps that she’d scattered were gathering themselves to rush her.

If four hundred hours playing Dino Rampage had taught her anything, it was this. Rush first.

She did, jumping to her complaining feet. Screaming with rage, she charged the stage.

Balor-El watched her, his chest swelling with rage. “Will you, for the love of chaos, just sit down! Hold her!”

Imps, chittering and howling, exchanged glances. Their voices rose in a guttural tongue, questioning.

“It’s audience participation!” squeaked one.

Argana jumped over the first of them, its barbed, spindly limbs reaching for her. The second snagged her jeans, its claws slicing her thigh and rending the denim. She shook it off.

Two more were in her path. A third behind them, coming up fast.

She punched the nearest in the face. It was an ethereal creature, much lighter than it looked. It reeled back, its sick yellow eyes blinking furiously as it stumbled to the floor, dazed.

“Yeah! Have some of that!”

Her next punch went awry, her target simply wrapping itself around her arm, biting. Something rugby-tackled her from behind. They didn’t have the mass to knock her down, but they did have the strength to hold her legs together.

That brought her rush to sudden end, tripping. For the second time in twenty seconds, she was tumbling to the floor, landing hard.

A dozen imps dog-piled her, their clawed hands snagging her clothes and hair. They reeked like rotten eggs and crab meat. And swarmed like cockroaches too, as they dragged her to a chair and held her down.

She couldn’t move. Neither could Berkshire, pinned by the beam across his legs. Max, hiding in the wings, was terrified, panting hard.

Melvyn was still slumped against the wall. Shaking his head to clear it, he spoke up.

“The mighty Demon King, realising his power over all the mortals in the realm, reflected that the better show of strength would be mercy…”

“No he didn’t! Imps, gag this one!”

The creatures stretching Melvyn across the table complied, stuffing Melvyn’s mouth with his own cravat.

Argana stared at Berkshire until he caught her looking, then mouthed at him, hoping he could lip read better than she could.

“The soul. Trade me his soul.”

He scowled sufficiently that his single syllable reply must have been

“What?”

“The demon’s soul. In the coin. Trade it me.”

The police officer spread his arms out, shrugging.

“What for?”

“This!” This time, she shouted the words.

She needed to trade for something that was worth less than the kiss-on-the-cheek he’d bought it for. Yanking her arm free from the talons of the nearest imp, she dug in her pockets. They’d taken her backpack, limiting her options. She still had the bottle opener though, the one marked with the Demoncoyn logo. With its badly printed label, it was as near as worthless as she could find.

She threw it. But the imp snatched at her, slowing her arm.

Going off-course, the bottle opener never made it to Berkshire. It crashed to the stage floor, three metres short.

He scrabbled, trying to find a noose of cable or a broken stick, anything he could reach it with. There was nothing.

“Ask Max!” she yelled at him.

Max peaked out from his hiding place on the opposite side of the stage to Berkshire. His ears up, alert for any command.

Berkshire caught on.

“Max! Fetch!”

The dog darted across the stage, seizing the bottle opener up in his jaws.

Balor-El, outraged, abandoned his preparations. Scooping up his sword, he threw a backhand slice at Max. The demonblade whistled over the animal’s head as he flattened himself under the swipe. Close, far too close.

Max sprinted to Berkshire, who took the bottle opener from him. Reaching out with his other arm he bodily hauled the dog over the rubble to safety.

Without imps holding him back, he was a better throw than Argana. So, when he sent the Demoncoyn flying back, the arc was perfect.

Unfortunately, it was also perfectly intercepted. Balor-El snatched it from the air at its apex.

Turning his gruesome eye on Argana, his peg-toothed mouth opened in a triumphant leer, fire licking at the corners.

“Ah, my soul. Re-united at last!”

Argana raised her head, along with her voice. “It’s not your soul. I own it.”

“Is this a joke? Do you know what I am?”

She wriggled free of a couple of the imps, rising to a half crouch.

“You’re a fragment of a greater being, something larger and more dangerous than I can comfortably think of. But the thing about being a planet dwarfing colossus is this - if you return to the rest of yourself, that you that’s here now will be swallowed up. We’ll be simply too insignificant for you to extract your revenge. Like a fly buzzing in the next room.”

It was the first time she’d seen Balor-El like this. Absolutely still. Nothing moving but the slow swirl in the depths of his eye.

“No,” he growled finally. “I’d need to make an example of you.”

“Not if I give you your soul back.”

“I could kill you and take it.”

“You can’t. Now it’s bound to the coin, it has to be traded.”

His eyes flickered, from algae green to fungus blue, and back again. He felt the truth of her words, then.

“And what would you trade the soul of a Fomorian for?”

She hesitated. I wasn’t like she could bargain for her life, it was too valuable. It had to be something less important than the bottle opener she’d given Berkshire. Something almost meaningless, then, but not so meaningless that it would insult him.

“I’m going to tell you something. I want you to laugh. That’s your trade. You laugh, you get the coin. You get your soul.”

Balor-El tipped his gigantic head on one side. An action which, if there was any justice to the laws of physics, should have toppled him over. His huge hands flexed, but he stayed where he was.

“Tell me.”

“How many Fomor would a Fomor have, if four more Fomor were for more?”

“What?” His deep rumble ran through her ribcage.

“How many Fomor would a Fomor have, if four more Fomor were for more?” she repeated, more quickly. Stepping toward him.

“That’s… not even funny.”

She turned to the congregation of imps, raising her arms.

“Chant it with me! How many Fomor would a Fomor have, if four more Fomor were for more?”

The imps, more eager for entertainment than their master, joined in. But not well. Their beak like faces were as ill-suited to tongue twisters as their mischievous natures. Two of them, their voices out synch, started a fight. One of them was knocked down, dragging its chair with it, colliding with another.

“You know, I think I will kill you…” boomed Balor-El.

Argana held up a finger.

“But first, answer me this: How many Fomor?”

The imps kept chanting. Even Melvyn had joined in. Balor-El scratched his head

“Eight?”

“Wrong!” she yelled.

The audience, every single imp, burst into mocking laughter. Balor-El’s gruesome eye turned black as curdled pitch. Infuriated, he charged.

Argana was ready. She ducked back through the lines of chairs, weaving in and out of the smaller demons.

Much larger than her, he couldn’t corner as fast. He crashed through the audience, crushing chairs and imps alike, flailing his great arms. As chaotic as they were, the imps cackled at the destruction. Their mounting injuries only pushed them further into hysteria.

And still she zigged and zagged through them. Until she reached the door at the back of the hall. It wouldn’t budge. She’d run out of room.

Which is when Balor-El tripped. A hapless imp who had got beneath his feet was crushed as he fell, sprawling full length down the hall. He screamed wordlessly with rage, punching the creature hard enough that it bounced off the far wall.

He pounded the ground with his fists.

“It’s all so stupid!” For an instant, she thought he was crying.

But he wasn’t. It bubbled up through him, like gas rising through tar. Just a grunt, the first one. And then a huff. And then, racking his huge chest a laugh. “It’s all so stupid,” he said, resignedly, shaking his head.

She could see it too. The insanity of the once mighty King of the Fomor, brought low tripping over chairs in his thirst for vengeance. She laughed too, short and sharp, her amusement tempered by her deadly fear.

Shouting to make herself heard above the still chanting imps, she called out to him.

“Balor-El, bane of Hathersage, scourge of the Tuatha, warrior of the Paragnostica. I grant you your soul, and with it, I release you from this world.”

He flinched. A wind rose from the corners of the room, becoming a tornado, dragging imps and furnishings into a hole in the ceiling above the stage. It pulled the monster to his feet. A chair broke loose from its mountings, sucked upward, careening off Balor-El’s head as it went.

The rend in the ceiling had become a gaping maw, somehow reaching beyond the dark globe and far, far into the centre of the galaxy. Balor rose from the floor, hovering in the air, jets of light breaking from his skin like a disco. The colour of his once rancid eye changed, becoming a bottomless, shimmering emerald. He said something, quietly, softly, but she couldn’t lip-read his ill formed mouth. The sky above him, the hole that fell into space, beckoned to her. She took faltering steps down the aisle, looking at it.

“Don’t look at it!” yelled Berkshire, but she ignored him. She ignored Max’s warning bark too.

It was beautiful in its dreadfulness, a thousand billion stars lensed through that opening. Savage tides of ancient nebulae, their rotten cores decayed over eons. The gurgling chaos of worlds unfathomably alien. Dark strands that stretched between the stars, like rot creeping through unloved timbers. A network of filaments that ran together, thrashing, before her eyes, until they formed a shape in those inverted heavens.

A vast, terrible shape, with a hammer shaped head and a single eye, where even the glint within the eye was a burning black hole, spewing white hot Hawking radiation at its edges. Balor-El tumbled up into the dark heart of it, forever reabsorbed. Becoming one with his former self.

Argana’s head swam with it all. Everything she’d ever seen, heard, or done tumbled through her mind all at once, begging her to grant it meaning. She swayed, losing her grip on the chair.

A length of wood hit her in the head, tumbling on up past her into the hole in the sky. A shower of sparks in her vision, her feet left the floor. She had only one fleeting thought before she lost consciousness. I’m going to die.

Taunting the void

Fred Berkshire strained against the bar lying across his legs. Aided by the vortex pulling on it, he finally shifted the thing. The timing was awful, he knew that. With half the theatre being sucked into space, he’d have been safer where he was. But personal safety was never big on his breakfast menu.

He could see Melvyn, the magician screaming in terror, his belt caught on the eagle’s wings of the lectern. That was all there was between him and the hungry sky.

More chairs broke free from their mountings in the audience, whirling away. Lights, scaffold, what remained of the ceiling, all accelerated into the air. Fred wound a length of rope around his left arm, ready to go get Melvyn.

Which is when he saw Argana, in the moment that she was hit. Had seen her eyes rolled up and she tumbled forward. For a moment her hair just raged in the wind, then she too was caught by the storm, lifted toward the void.

Taking three strides and a leap, Fred launched himself after her. He caught her by the leg. The rope went taught, bringing his ascent to a sudden and painful stop, tightening around his arm and bending it. Still he held on to Argana with his other hand, bellowing with the effort.

His police cap came off, vanishing into the raging darkness above.

“Don’t… look… at… it,” he reminded himself, teeth gritted.

The last of the imps gave up. The railing it was holding onto collapsed and it shot past him, propelled like a satanic cork out of a bottle of holy water. It screeched as it went, high to low, the doppler shift as it whistled by underscoring its sheer velocity.

Fred’s arms were agony. Tendons stood out along his arm, fighting his rapidly weakening grip. Everything was pain. Something would have to give if it hadn’t already. And that something was going to be part of him.

Then the wind was gone. The flapping hole in reality sealed itself shut. Through the shattered roof he saw the sky, blue and bright, ribbons of black floating away like a rendered jellyfish.

He fell to the floor, trying to guide Argana to a not-too-injurious collision with the stage. Melvyn fared better, his belt stopping him from falling, just as it had stopped him from rising.

Fred freed his arm from the rope, disappointed to find that the pain in it didn’t go away.

Max came out from wherever he’d hidden, running to Argana, licking her face.

“I think… we might be alive,” said Melvyn, sounding as surprised as Fred felt.

It was a moment of calm. Time to catch half a breath, nothing more. Because that’s when the first explosion rocked them. A boiler room somewhere out back collapsed in a billow of dust and noise. Followed by jets of flame as the gas lines broke.

What was left of the ceiling shifted, groaning. Splinters of wood descended, lumps of plaster already breaking above them. There were gaps in the black dome now. Above there were clouds, red in the pre-dawn light. Silhouetted against them, more debris in the sky. The bits that hadn’t made it into the portal, falling from hundreds of metres up.

He scrambled to his feet, summoning reserves of energy he thought were already gone.

“We’ve got to get out of here!”

Ragged strips of black void boiled away into the sky, like bin liners fed to fan blades. Fred hoisted Argana onto his shoulder and started walking. It was just as well she was unconscious, it was a blasted uncomfortable way to travel - though if she hadn’t been, it wouldn’t have been necessary. He ran, zigging and zagging between the falling masonry. Shreds of curtain, fragments of props, splinters of plasterboard all rained from the sky, those pieces that hadn’t been expelled into the void alongside Balor-El.

Max ran just a couple of paces ahead of him, flicking anxious glances over his shoulder to make sure Fred was keeping up.

“It’s ok, little pal, I’ve got her.” It was an effort to get the words out between the great lungfuls of air he had to take to keep going.

The sky was bright, the sun shining down on the Paragnostica as they looked on, baffled. The paramedics had broken their cordon, and the audience members he had freed stood or sat in a gaggle around the ambulances.

“You ok? I’ll take her if you need.” That was Melvyn, running alongside him, though the magician was breathing as heavily as he was.

“No.”

He honestly didn’t think Melvyn had what it would take to carry Argana from the disaster zone at speed. But if he was honest with himself, that wasn’t the only reason. Fred liked being the hero, and, although he wouldn’t admit to anyone else, he liked that Argana would have to admit that she owed him this time.

Just as his burning legs and lungs, his aching shoulders, felt that they couldn’t take any more, the cavalry came. Seeing them running, paramedics came to meet him, two of them hauling a stretcher between them. With them came Damola, the scientist’s eyes fixed on Melvyn, tears of relief streaming over his face. The two men ran into each other’s arms in a fierce embrace.

And then the medics reached him, gently taking Argana from his shoulder and lying her out on the stretcher. It was the all-terrain variety. Supports on an extendable frame with tiny, knobby wheels.

“We’ll take her from here, Chief,” said one of the paramedics, her face earnest. “You did well.”

Fred sagged, bracing one arm against his knees, fighting to replenish his breath. Looking fearfully back at the remains of the theatre, he saw journalists and Paragnostica alike press into the ruined building. The immediate danger had passed, with only the lightest bits of debris still airborne. Whisps of cloth and paper drifted down. The building itself was rubble now, shattered half height walls poking from the ruins.

“Hey, Officer Berkshire, was it you that got those people out?”

A woman had come up on the other side of him, making him jump. In her forties with a beige coat and sleek dark hair, he recognised her as local journalist Madelaine Brouse. The Trotterwell Times logo tagged on her dictaphone confirmed this.

“Er, yeah?” He was still fighting for breath, and wanted to make sure Argana was ok. “Can we do this later?”

“Sure, but just one question-”

“You heard the man. Beat it.” This was MacGillycuddy, chest out, exuding confidence as he strode over. He didn’t actually push Madelaine back, but his presence was enough to shut her up.

Ambushed twice in twenty seconds. Fred was not in a good way. He straightened up, but dark flickers gnawed at the edge of his vision.

“What do you want?” he groggily asked MacGillycuddy.

“To shake your hand, you idiot. For finishing the job I started forty years ago.” The priest thrust out a gnarled hand.

Fred clasped it firmly.

“You’re welcome. Just, y’know, doing my job.”

MacGillycuddy didn’t let go after the shake, instead yanking Fred’s hand to pull him closer. The priest pitched his voice low and gravelly so that no one would overhear.

“If you squeak a word about what you saw in there, about the King of the Fomor, we’ll have you busted out of the Force so fast you’ll be a car park security guard the rest of your life. And you’ll still spend your whole life looking over your shoulder, wondering who will protect you from the Acolytes of the Eigenstar.”

Fred glared into the man’s flint-grey eyes. All the chaos and adrenaline of the desperate escape from the theatre boiled up inside him, and he channelled it.

“I’m a police officer, I don’t deal in secrets and pacts, like you. I’ve just been toe to toe with a demon lord. I got ten people out alive, and I’ve lived to tell the tale. And when I say, ‘to tell the tale’, I mean it. I’ve earnt it. So don’t threaten me, old man.”

MacGillycuddy let go of Fred’s hand, instead squeezing his left shoulder. A stab of pain ran through him, reminding him that he’d done something unpleasant to it in the theatre.

“There are things it’s better if the laity don’t know about,” insisted MacGillycuddy.

“I bet there are. And half of them are to do with your Paragnostica. I’ve got the faesight now, Father, and you’d better pray to your God that I don’t use it to expose your secrets.”

MacGillycuddy’s jaw clenched, tension flashing through the vertical crags of his face. Then he got his emotions under control, giving Fred a cold smile.

“As I say, boy, you banished the demon. That’s what counts.”

He strode away, as determinedly as he’d come. He didn’t notice that Madelaine, standing four metres away, had listened to the entire exchange. But Fred noticed. She gave him a sympathetic shrug and went to join her cameraperson poking through the theatre remains.

Fred went to the ambulance, where Argana was still lying on the trolley just outside. They’d fitted her with a neck brace, and a concerned medic was bending over her, pushing an oxygen mask on. His colleague, the one who had taken Argana from Fred in the first place, turned to him.

“Is she going to be ok?” Fred asked.

The woman didn’t reply. He didn’t know her, but her badge said her name was Sophia. She was looking at his arm.

“You’re bleeding. You know that, right?”

He looked down.

“I do now.” That at least explained his dizzy sensation.

Sophia tugged at his sleeve, which was torn, and gently felt his arm through it. More stabs of pain, as when the priest had grabbed him.

“Try not to move it,” she said.

He’d just stopped being a colleague in a different service and become another casualty, he realised. As she jumped into the back of the ambulance for supplies, he took his opportunity to check on Argana.

Her eyes were open now, hazily scanning the sky. There was a bruise all up one side of her face, and she was going to have one hell of a shiner in the morning.

“Hey,” he said, putting his good hand on her brow to smooth her hair.

She blinked, struggling to bring him into focus. Her breath condensed on the inside of the mask, and he had to lean in close to hear her. “Berk. We… did it, right? What happened? My head hurts. And it did someone kick me in my stomach?”

“That was my shoulder. I had to give you a firefighter’s lift.”

“Ha.” She laughed lazily. “My hero.”

Tucking her elbows into the stretcher mattress, she started to sit up, but the returning paramedic gently pushed her down again.

“Try not to move,” she said.

“Is she hurt?” Fred asked him.

The man shook his head.

“This is a precaution. But head injuries, you know, we’ll scan her at the hospital.”

Argana reached up, cupping the side of Fred’s cheek with her palm and sliding her hand over his jaw.

“I’d kiss you,” she said.

“Not for a coin? Definitely concussed.”

“Ok, step back, sir.”

The ambulance driver had come around, and between them he and the first paramedic loaded her into the back of the ambulance. Max ran over, jumping in just as they shut the door. It opened again.

“Get out, dog!” said the paramedic. Max stayed under Argana’s trolley.

“Sir,” the paramedic asked Fred, “do you know this dog? Can you take it with you?”

Fred looked straight into Max’s face, his big eyes and attentive ears. “Never seen him before,” he said. “You’ll have to take him with you.”

They did.

Then Sophie had returned, a green medical bag slung over her shoulder and a pair of scissors in her hand.

“Come over to the car. You might want to sit down for this.”

He followed her over to her paramedic vehicle, a Volvo estate with fluorescent green and yellow markings. He sat on the boot lip.

“Let’s do this.” Sophie cut away his sleeve.

“That’s my uniform…” he protested.

“It was. Now it’s extra wadding. We’re running low on bandages. These compound fractures take a lot of dressing.”

He wasn’t normally a queasy man, but he had to look away as she dressed his wound. She pressed a fistful of cloth against his arm, binding it in place with a strip of his own sleeve and several revolutions of medical tape. His teeth ground as he gripped the side of the car to save from passing out.

“That’ll keep you in one place long enough to get to the hospital. Come around, we’ll put you in the front.”

“What about my car?” He asked, the difficulties of driving one-handed and anaemic having not quite dawned yet.

“Ah.” She stifled a laugh. “You didn’t see your car?”

Fifty metres away, it was no longer car shaped. The interceptor was bowed down in the middle and up at the ends, surrounded with shards of glass and the burst remains of at least one of its doors. Part of the arch from above the hall door, a block of stone that must have weighed three tons, pinned the vehicle down. It must have fallen from the sky.

“Sure, we’ll take yours,” he agreed. “Mine’s not going anywhere.”

Sniffer dog

Two days later, Argana Zeit was sitting up in a hospital bed, idly flicking through the pages of a magazine. Her head still pounded. In one of the toilets, she’d had the courage to check her reflection. Black eye, enclosed by purple and yellow circles. And her hair, usually curly and scruffy, hung limp and straight. It couldn’t be helped.

There was a knock on the door of her private room. A man she didn’t know came in, wearing a mustard-coloured shirt and pale blue jeans. He smiled at her. One arm in a sling, the other crooking a bunch of flowers. Slick dark hair, rectangular moustache.

“Berkshire!” she called out. “I didn’t recognise you out of uniform!”

“These are for you.” He put the flowers down on the side table. “Oh, and hey, I brought someone up with me.”

Max nosed in behind him. Her heart leapt. She hadn’t seen the dog since the escape from Hathersage Hall. Tears ran over her bruised cheek. For his part, Max ran to her, deciding at the last minute not to jump onto the high bed. Instead, he whirled in a circle, tail wagging.

She climbed out, dressed in only in an oversized t-shirt, and hugged the dog close. Berkshire looked away, giving the two the space for their reunion.

“Let me guess,” she said, when she’d done cooing at Max, “you told them he was a police sniffer dog?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh Berk, you big softie.”

Straightening, she threw her arms around him. He winced, and her head pounded. He returned the hug, but more gently.

“Ms Zeit. I’m here to take you home.”

She frowned, looking at his wounded arm. “How? You can’t drive like that!”

He chuckled. “I’ve got a taxi waiting, you div. I’ll wait in the hall while you get your clothes on.”

They left the Royal Derby Hospital in a cab. They sat one on each side in the back, Max between them on the bench. His head in Argana’s lap, and tail curled over Berkshire’s knee. She kept her eyes on the passing countryside to keep from getting car sick. The concussion wasn’t helping. Out along the A38, the high embankments hid the small city from them.

“How are you feeling?” asked Berkshire.

“Like that time when I was nine, and Nate put a stick through the front wheel of my bicycle. I was going downhill and ended up using my face as a brake pad. Come on Berk, haven’t you seen this shiner?”

She turned toward him, fluttering her eyelids for effect, pointing a finger at her black eye. Instantly feeling queasy, she looked back out of the window. “What about your arm?”

“The bone was poking out,” he said casually. That just made her feel worse. He had to be doing it on purpose.

“Did we really get rid of him, this time?” He added.

“What, Balor-El? Yes,” she told him. “Third time lucky. He went back to the dark heart of the galaxy to spend more time with himself.”

In the car window, Berkshire’s reflection nodded.

“Akira’s caused a lot of trouble. If they’d actually passed the G.H.O.S.T. Act, he’d be facing charges now.”

“That was all kind of an accident, really,” she told him. “I wouldn’t blame Akira so much.”

“He nearly got us all killed!”

“He didn’t though. But he also got those kids rescued. Just, don’t tell him that. So, we’re kind of quits, the way I see it.”

“Akira didn’t rescue the kids! That was us, a dozen paramedics, and Judy Keppler!”

Argana shook her head, instantly regretting the movement. It was only when she’d stopped seeing stars that she answered him.

“Think about it. He bound his machine to that book, The Illuminated Book of Darkness. Which, it turns out, MacGillycuddy used to put Balor-El back in his box forty years ago. If Akira hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t have got Balor-El. Balor-El wouldn’t have gone after the fae, which was his mission since the 1500s. So, the owners of the winning Demoncoyn - the Arbuthnots that is, who first had possession of his soul - wouldn’t have got the faesight. That wasn’t his blessing, by the way, it was cross-contamination. They wouldn’t have found Elmo. No one would have attacked the Scholes. It was that which panicked the other changelings into coming out of hiding, which in turn meant the kidnapped children walked free. So, yes, Akira did us all a favour.”

Berkshire rubbed at his sore arm, still very much in its plaster cast. “I could do with fewer favours, I think.”

She glanced across, struck again by his mustard-coloured shirt.

“I can’t get used to you like that. What are you going to do with your time off?”

“Recover.”

“But what does that mean?”

He shrugged, an action that made him wince when his shoulder moved.

“You know, enjoy the sunshine. Eat ice cream. Not worry about anything. You should try it.”

She snorted.

“Tell you what,” he said, “how about we round up a couple of friends and go for a curry at The Taste of Chandigarh? We could-”

Her phone went off. Pulling it from her pocket, she had to squint to focus on it. Without reading the caller, she answered it.

“Hey. Argana here.”

“You, hey my buddy, it’s me!” burbled the unmistakable voice of Akira. On the surface of it, his enthusiasm suggested he’d already bounced back from his recent tribulations. But there was an undercurrent in his voice, only noticeable to someone who knew him as well as she did.

What could he be upset about?

“Oh, I didn’t take Toaster with me, did I?”, she said, feigning apology. “What a shame.”

“Yeah, you totally broke your end of the deal.”

He didn’t sound fazed. That wasn’t the problem, then.

“Ah, I’ll do it next time. How about your book? Do you want that book back? It was MacGillycuddy’s once, you know.”

“Sure.” His voice became serious. “Um, that’ not why I’m calling, though. You remember that well in my basement?”

She continued to stare out of the window as she recalled setting up her demon alarm over it. “The one with the mermaid statue?”

“There’s water coming out of it.”

Her laugh was scornful. “It is a well, Akira. That’s what they’re generally known for.”

“Black water. That tastes of blood.”

“Then just don’t lick it.”

Suddenly the phone wasn’t in her hand anymore. Berkshire had reached across and grabbed it off her. He jabbed a button, ending the call.

“Hey!”

“You’d have hung up on him anyway,” said Berkshire. Which was hard to argue with, so she didn’t try. “Just take a few days off, ok, Ms Zeit? Go for a walk with Max. Play Dino Rampage with Yasmin. Bake cookies. Although, preferably without burning your house down.  Just, for a change, look after yourself.”

“Look after myself? Nonsense,” she said, “I’ve got Max to do that for me.”

He laughed quietly, his breath ruffling his moustache.

She gave him a smile. “I will take you up on that curry, though.”

If you want to read more Argana Zeit, go ahead and pick up the prequel novelette collection here https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B09NP7T9NZ

The end.

That bit at the back

Hey, you’re still reading! Thanks for coming along for the ride, I hope you enjoyed No Fae Back Now. That it made you laugh, cry, and contained ideas that either made you wonder why you didn’t think of them first, or for the sake of your sanity, glad that you didn’t. If any of that rings true, you might enjoy my mailing list, and I warmly invite you to join in at https://www.owainoakwood.com/subscribe/ I’ll send you an exclusive story, Argana Zeit and the Bay of Ghosts. Promise.

Speaking of more stories, the novel currently in your hands grew out of a series of short stories and novellas about the same characters. You can find these as published as three collections:

Paranormal in the Peaks

The Devil in Derbyshire

The Horror in the Hills

It remains for me to thank the people who helped along the way with fixes and feedback, whether tackling hundreds of grammatical errors or opinionating on the penultimate draft. Kate Durrant, Hobbit, Jen Lewis, and Kate Sayers, this book wouldn’t be the same without you.

Keep it weird,

Owain.