Sparkly Vampire

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

I asked the old biddy for another sugar lump but she spat at my feet and shouted at me to go away (I divined this by the accompanying hand gestures). Some people have all the cheek! At least she let me keep the gun. What a souvenir! It will make a fine display piece in the Great Hall. I wonder if I can get meteoric iron pellets?

Anyway. We set off again with Felicia taking point again. Let's hope we don't meet any more batty old fishwives.

From the journal of Julie Turling

It took me a moment to figure out what had happened and I went cold. Fancy been enchanted so easily! One would have thought a mage of my ilk couldn't be so easily overcome but then, so was Harold, though he doesn't seem to realise it yet. I wish Felicia had found a way to just disenchant me. We'd have made much better time with me riding a horse.

I miss horses. Mummy used to take me riding when I was a child. Before she put me in the asylum.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

All's well that ends well, I suppose, though I shall keep a wary eye on the path behind in case the witch tries to sneak up on us. She definitely wasn't happy about loosing her two new horses.

By my guess we've been in Faery for about two hours, our time. I hope we can find this chap of Jasfoup's soon. I'm going to need to hunt when the moon comes up.
Jasfoup's Journal

I must have nodded off in front of the television, for when I awoke Gillian was feeding Lucy. It was past twilight, and she was sparkling all over. She noticed my quizzical eyebrow.

"Glitter," she said. "I've no idea where it came from. I thought it was one of Harold's practical jokes until I saw your expression. Where is everybody?"

"Faery," I said, "tracking down an errant soul for a friend of mine. I expected them back before now, mind. They must be having a good time."

"There was someone in the garden earlier," she said. "Frederick went out but couldn't see a thing. The moon's on the wrong side of the building." She frowned. "There isn't an open portal anywhere, is there?"

Oh dear.

A Spell, Redacted

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

Ah! Felicia was in the little hut. I wonder why she's in black and white as well?

From the journal of Julie Turling

Wait! Something very odd is happening here. The old woman has done something. I cant raise my arms. Ooh1 The grass over there is even greener. Back in a mo...

From the journal of Felicia Turling

It was safe to say that madam was Not Happy. She spat out a string of invective in a tongue I didn't know (The gist of it was recognisable in any language). I held up the poppet and gave it just enough of a squeeze that she got my point, then pointed at Harold and Julie.

She frowned for a moment, spat on the floor at my feet, and spoke whatever spell she needed to change them back, which returned her as well.

I smiled.

"Rosie and I have just been having a chat, Harold," I said. "She says you can keep the gun if you like. She doesn't need it any more thou if you come across a spare horse she'd be grateful for it.

"Spare horse?" he said. "She had one a moment ago."

Jasfoup's Journal

I looked up when the program finished to discover Lucy had stopped drinking her milk and was chewing on Harold's second-best Waterman pen. (It's a popular gift here and, by tradition, he has to say 'It's got my name on it'). She was covered in blue ink. It took me ages to get the pen clean. I don't know how parents cope with a child full-time. I've only had her a couple of hours and I'm on the edge of sanity.

Backfire

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

Isn't sugar wonderful? It's like a taste explosion. A mouth orgasm, even.

From the journal of Julie Turling

Do you know, I've never realised how lovely grass is to eat. There should be more recipes involving it. It really is most deliciously sweet.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

"Old Lady!" I said and had I not had werewolf-enhanced reflexes I swear I would have joined the others in the stable. Instead I squeezed the head of the poppet and she took a huge intake of breath to scream. The spell must have backfired because she began to change into a horse before my eyes.

Since I'd interrupted the spell, however, it wasn't complete. The old lady ended up with only the hindquarters of a horse. Lucky me! If she'd become a complete horse I have no idea how I'd have reversed the spells on Julie and Harold.

As it was, she could still talk, and I had leverage.

Jasfoup's Journal

Oh! How splendid!

I spotted a new animated series was on television and Frederick, Lucy and I settled down to watch it with a cup of tea (though Lucy had formula).

Michelangelo, Raphael, Donatello and Leonardo are four teenage renaissance artists that take to the streets to fight crime by performing lightning-fast sketches of criminals as they perform nefarious deeds.

Adapting to Circumstances

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

The old lady wasn't so bad, really. She gave me a sugar lump.

From the journal of Julie Turling

I went to look for Harold and Felicia. I'll say one thing for the old woman: she kept a lovely lush piece of grass by the side of her hut.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

The horse poppet in my hand crumbled into dust as the old woman spoke. She knew her stuff, did this old woman, and I finally understood what changing into a wolf looked like from the outside. Not that there were any more wolves – standing in ront of the old woman were now two horses; one chestnut mare with a scarred face and one silver-maned Arabian stallion. I have to say, I was almost hesitant about trying to help. Harold is so much nicer as a horse.

Still, help I must. Again.

I turned back to the puppets and took the largest of them, the one of the old woman herself. In addition to the hair and bone, this one encompassed a tiny piece of parchment and a nugget of gold. I didn't realise they could be used to draw positive things as well.

I picked it up and went outside.

Jasfoup's Journal

Lucy needed changing again. Frederick supervised.

And I thought demons were disgusting!

Spellcraft? Neigh, Madam

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

Julie was a little indignant that I'd shifted the blame to her so easily but this old biddy un-nerved me a bit. Perhaps she was reminiscent of my mum. That would explain such fear. At least I got to sample the fish.

She told Julie she'd have to replace this Marty chap. As what? Provider? Husband?

"I say," I said. "You can't go around making demands of people like that. The truth of the matter is your fellow shot at us first. I'd have been killed if he'd been a better marksman.

The darned woman must have cast some silencing spell at me, for I fell to my hands and knees and everything went black for a moment. When I came to I couldn't speak and everything was in black and white. It crossed my mind that we might have been captured in an old film. Julie and Felicia had vanished and the old woman had got a horse from somewhere.

From the journal of Julie Turling

What did she mean, 'I'd have to replace her husband'?

I saw the well of power rise like charge in a capacitor but she was too quick for me. She threw a spell and I blacked out. When I came to I couldn't form a coherent sentence and everything was in black and white. Harold and Felicia had vanished and the old woman had got a horse from somewhere.
From the journal of Felicia Turling

How odd. She had so many little dolls, each with bits of hair and bone poking out of the clay. There was one of a horse, but it was charred and broken. I looked out of the window in time to hear the woman shout something I didn't understand and point at Harold and Julie.

Oh dear. Spellcraft.

Jasfoup's Journal

Devious collected up the tea things and I took Lucy for a quick stroll around the garden. Julie's herb (let's call it 'herb,' shall we? It sounds so much nicer than 'poison') garden was doing splendidly and she manage to rebuild the moongate. How lovely.

In the centre of the garden, in front of the old cricket pavilion, she'd built a circular patio with a sundial in the middle, around which was inscribed: For the soul there's an hour, as there is for the moon. Lovely, though I might dispute it if I chose. Lucy like it, anyway. She dribbled.

Fudging the Issue

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

The old woman wouldn't take no for an answer. "I can smell him on you," she said. "Clear as daylight. I can smell his gun as well, though why he gave it you i can only guess. Was it the cockatrice? He'd have shot it if it threatened you."

"Cockatrice?" I asked.

"Aye. Half chicken, half lizard, half bat. It'll turn you to stone as soon as look at you."

"Isn't that three halves?" I said. "Anyway, it's Gorgons that turn you to stone."

"And basilisks and cockatrice. All natural inhabitants in these parts."

"I see," I said, though I didn't really. "The cockatrice is dead, then."

"Really? Oh! You have put my mind at rest. You can leave Marty's gun with me."

"Oh." I didn't really want to give it up but unless we wanted to admit everything I was going to have to give her the pistol. I pointed to Julie. "She did it," I said."

From the journal of Julie Turling

The rotten sod Harold gave me up as the killer. I apologised to the woman and explained it was self defence because he'd shot at Harold. She started crying. "Oh Marty," she said, over and over until I felt my heart would break. After about ten minutes, during which Harold made the most of her distraction and ate two of her fish, she stopped crying and looked right at me.

"You killed him," she said, "so you'll have to replace him."

From the journal of Felicia Turling

Harold let out that Julie had killed the mad woman's husband. I backed away and, while she rocked on her haunches sobbing, had a look inside her cottage. It was as compact as a gypsy caravan and, when I looked again at the outside, I realised that's exactly what it was. But where was the horse to pull it?

I did like all the little dolls she had. One of them looked just like Marty.
Jasfoup's Journal

We had cake too. Well, I did, anyway. Devious appeared with it, freshly baked. Not that he'd baked it himself, you understand. It was still wrapped in the baker's catering box.

Mmm. Cherry fudge cake.

There was an Old Woman...

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

"Ho!" I said. "Old Woman! Do you know where we can find the dread necromancer, Um... Thingybob?"

She looked up, staring at me with white, sightless eyes. I know that's a contradiction but I can't help it. That's exactly what it was like: a blind stare.

"Who are you calling 'old woman', stranger?" she said and, pointing to her right, "I can hear ye, wolfman, creeping up through my roses." Felicia stopped. I honestly don't think she's ever been called 'wolfman' before. Her face was a picture!

"Pah!" she said. "I don't know about necromancers, dread or otherwise, but I can smell the magic on thee and thee," – she pointed at Julie and myself – "and you have a wolfman with ye, too. It seems to me that you be the villains. I smelled you coming and sent my Marty to guide you safely past the cockatrice. You must have passed him on the path."

"Tall fellow; long coat, hat and pistol?" I said.

"Aye."

"I haven't seen him.

From the journal of Julie Turling

She was wilier than she looked, this old fishwife. "I looked at her aura and she spotted me immediately. She was like me – blind to the real world but gifted with the Sight. Harold was lying to her about her husband and she could see the lies as clearly as I could – his aura blackened with every utterance of them. he forgot the mage's name, too. Edward Jose Thorburn.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

How could see sense me coming over her blindness and the smell of that fish? If these are roses they're the funniest looking specimens I've ever seen. She has the smell of the Fae about her, mind. Best be careful.

Jasfoup's Journal

Frederick and I had a cup of tea on the sun-drenched terrace, with Lucy un her Moses basket. One of Gillian's cats investigated her use as a food source or, failing that, a sandbox but gave up on both thoughts.

Mourning Marty

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

I eventually got Julie moving and we headed up the trail, this time a little more wary of odd men with guns. After about a four miles we came in sight of a small cottage. I say 'cottage' but it was no bigger than a bus shelter but there was smoke coming out of the chimney and a woman outside roasting fish (I really hope they were fish) on a makeshift barbecue. She was dressed in a similar fashion to the chap with the gun so it was safe to assume that she would probably try to kill us too.

"Fire dart?" I said to Julie.

"No," she said. "She's done nothing to us."

Is she allowed to be disobedient?

From the journal of Julie Turling

We came upon some poor fishwife after another half a mile or so. Harold, who would only get off his bum when Felicia had caught up, wanted me to kill her from a safe distance but I refused. I only killed the gunman after he fired on Harold. I'm certainly no murderer. She hadn't done anything to us and let's face it, she would probably mourn the fellow we'd shot and didn't even have a body to bury. I've no idea if they have any religion here but a body is sacred in most cultures. Who knows? In Faery they may well use them to grow more residents from. I approached her, warily.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

The lazy arses hadn't even moved since I left. I took point and headed up the trail. There was a hut not far away with a woman that smelled the same as the gunner – I'm guessing a sister or a wife – and I went to investigate.

Her head rose before I got within twenty yards. "Who's there?" she said, picking up an iron rod. "I know there's someone close. My husband will be back in a moment and he's a keen shot, is my Marty."

She was blind and must have had a very keen sense of smell – she caught my scent over that of the baking fish.

Jasfoup's Journal

Home again.

Frederick mentioned Fliss had been back and gone again. "She did something in one of the stables," he said, and looked after Lucy while I went to look. How odd! A heat box with an egg inside. I wonder why.

Also, why the camera on the side?

Lucy settled off to sleep again, thankfully.

Go on with You!

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

We hung about waiting for Felicia. I proposed we move on and find this dratted mage Jasfoup was so keen to haul home but Julie mithered about waiting for Felicia to return. 'We can't go without her,' she whined.

Ah, well. It gave me the chance to have a proper look inside the cave. Not that I found anything useful, other than a few feathers for Devious.

From the journal of Julie Turling

I know Fliss can look after herself so i proposed Harold and I head on up the trail. Unfortunately he was too scared to go and claimed Fliss wouldn't be able to find us if we moved. "Harold," I said, "It's a single path and she's a werewolf. She'll find us." I swear he'd have rather run away home than go on.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

What did Harold call after me about? I took him a packet of salt.

Jasfoup's Journal

Well I have to say, Meinwen is not the woman I thought she was. How she can refuse to look after a child and still be a card-carrying member of the feminist society I don't know. Isn't the bint she worships supposed to be the great mother? Not the great babysitter, obviously!

I called for a taxi back to the manor. Unfortunately, I then had to knock on Meinwen's door again. "May I borrow a fiver for the taxi fare?"

Endangered Species

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

Ha! Felicia tried to pinch the roast chicken but I whipped it away before she had the chance. Happily I still had the thermos of tea but when I tried it there was no sugar in. I spat out the mouthful and concentrated on the chicken instead. Felicia had found an egg. Good luck to her trying to cook that with a just a jumper.

She ran off back to the portal, probably to soft-boil it. I called after her for sugar but I think she pretended not to hear.
From the journal of Julie Turling

How is the man alive? I've never seen Harold without Jasfoup's guidance and the man's all but an endangered species. He's eaten the apple and now he's wolfing burned cockatrice. Colour me surprised if he doesn't end up growing a second head or something.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

Damn! I'd forgotten how fast Harold was when it came to food. Never mind. I packed the egg in the dead blokes satchel with Julie's jumper, promising to bring it back in half an hour. She didn't mind too much since she had a decent coat now. I legged it back to the portal and took it through,.

There was only Frederick and Molly at the manor, but Frederick explained that Jasfoup had a collection to pick up and had taken Lucy with him. That's nice. She likes the post office.

In the second stable, the one with all the parts for a VW Beetle we no longer have, I set up a wooden crate with a light bulb and straw with a remote bluetooth webcam inside to check on the cockatrice without exposing myself to the dangers of petrification. I could make a fortune breeding endangered species. Especially mythological ones.

I stopped off in the kitchen to make a sandwich then went back.

Jasfoup's Journal

Meinwen was all but useless with the baby. "What do I know about them?" she said. "I've never even carried a boyfriend for nine months."

"Isn't it instinct?" I said. "Or you could always look it up on the internet."

"You want me to babysit?"

"Only until dark," I said. "I'll owe you one."

"Owe me what?"

I think the wink was probably mistimed, seeing as she slammed the door in my face.

Roasted

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

The apple tasted a bit odd. Musty, almost, as if it had been packed in a huge crate and the apple living next door but one had gone mouldy. I flipped through the book but the nearest I could get to a spell for 'oven-roast chicken' was 'incendio' which i was pretty certain was a spell Jasfoup had copied from a teenage wizard book. At least he didn't copy the 'trudge wearily from one bit of the forest to the next with a damp tent' spell.

The spell worked, though. Worked too well, to be honest. I was left with a charred piece of chicken which looked as if it had come from the evening menu of a Toby Inn. I could almost see the blood spattered aprons of the waiters.

From the journal of Julie Turling

I can't believe Harold wants to eat the cockatrice. I'll wait until he tries to cook it and then incinerate it. It's for his own good. He's also eaten the apple. Does he believe he's immortal or something?

From the journal of Felicia Turling

Ooh! Barbecued chicken!

Jasfoup's Journal

How undignified!

Not only did I have to get a bus back into town but Lucy filled her nappy just before we got on. I don't think I've ever been so embarrassed in my life. That'll teach me to offer to babysit..

I shall go and call on Meinwen.

Burning Bones

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

Not a bad hall, really. A hat, a gun and, from a little leather satchel the chap had been wearing, a pouch of what look to be sunflower seeds and an apple. Nothing else I really wanted. I'd have felt bad about looting his corpse had he not fired first.

I was almost tempted to have his duster-style coat as well but Julie still looked cold. "Here," I said, passing it to her. "You look cold."

She said thanks and turned away before I could ask her to gook the chicken. I sat on a statue to check my spell book and eat the apple.

From the journal of Julie Turling

Harold looted the corpse and gave me the coat. I wish I'd had the strength of mind to refuse it but I was cold and it was a nice coat. I had a look at the satchel too and found a leather pouch with half a dozen teeth in it. They looked like the canines of an animal. Something with hollow teeth, anyway.

I used an infernal fire to reduce the body to ash. I didn't feel right about leaving it to be picked clean by scavengers.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

I checked out the cave on the off-chance they might be another cockatrice but I found something even better. Nestled among the bones of whatever it had eaten was a large, leathery egg. Fantastic! I hurried outside with it. The bloke's satchel would be good to carry it in but I'd need his shirt or something to keep the egg from breaking.

I paused, surprised. "Where's the body gone?" I said.

Jasfoup's Journal

I scowled at Cadfiel. "Don't be so stupid!" I said, though I was terrified he'd ask further. A nephilim is the product of an angel (or true demon) and a mortal. Lucy was the product of two angels. She was an mortal angel.

Best we don't spread that too wide.

"Come on," I said to the bloke as I opened a portal to Hell. "Down you go. I'd normally come with you but I've been left holding the baby. Can you see the path? Yes? Excellent. Just follow the good intentions."

Looting the Corpse

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

I say! The sculptor tried to shoot me!

I did have the reflexes to hold the dead chicken in front of me – at least if it wasn't dead it certainly is now. Felicia took a couple of pellets too though she's still whining about them. I thought werewolves weren't injured by anything except silver and magic. It just goes to show how much they still whine.

I had a look at the chap that shot at me. He looked human until you took off the top hat and then he looked elven. Odd. I didn't think there were any elves in Faery any more. I have to admire Julie's handiwork. Her spell had drilled a neat hole through his skull. He looked like the 'Eagle Eye Action Man' I used to have as a kid. I used to have to, actually, but I kept one pristine in its box. It'll still be stored in mum's attic.

I began rooting through his stuff. At the very least I was having his pistol.

From the journal of Julie Turling

Happily, I brought along a small first aid kit. I think being a stepmom instils a sense on make-sure. I sat Felicia on a stone dog – I doubt he'd be chasing cats any time soon -- and used tweezers to tease out all the buckshot. There were dozens of pieces. Fortunately, each wound closed as soon as I removed the pellet.
From the journal of Felicia Turling

Dammit. Not only did we loose the cockatrice but Harold's getting first root through the bloke's stuff. Hot that I wanted the gun or the hat. I wonder if the cockatrice laid any eggs?

Jasfoup's Journal

Lucy started pointing at the soul and giggling. Henry Jackson, the extracted soul, started to get embarrassed. "Don't worry," I said. "She's only six months old. All babies can see the dead at this age. They loose it shortly after they begin to talk."

"That's a relief," said Cadfiel. "I thought I was going to have to report a nephilim there." He frowned. "She's not yours, is she?"

A Sudden Death

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

The chap with the antique pistol was one of the rudest people I've ever encountered outside of Billericay in Essex.

"Who are you?" he said. "State your business or say a prayer."

"What sort of prayer?" I said. I was a bit annoyed at both his brusqueness and his imprecise request. "Would you like me to say Grace? Morning adulation, or a general song of praise to God?"

He flinched when I said 'God'. I'd forgotten the fae dislike of religion since the subject never came up when I talked to Grandmother."

"What's the matter?" I said. "You don't like to hear God's name?"

He flinched again. "Desist from such talk," he said.

"Or else what?" I stepped forward. "You brought the subject up. I would never have thought of saying God's name, or Jesus, or Yahweh."

"Stop it!" he said, and fired his little blunderbuss. I closed my eyes and heard a band, a yell, a squawk and a his of air.

"You missed," I said, and opened my eyes.

From the journal of Julie Turling

Oh, for Pete's sake.

I can't believe Harold antagonised the man. He was obviously unstable to begin with and should have been treated with kid gloves, not taunted until he fired the damned gun. He could have been reasoned with, I'm sure, but Harold's taunts left him no choice but to fire.

Just as I had no choice but to launch a fire dart at his brain.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

That stung like a tax demand.

I could see the geezer's finger whiten on the trigger so what else could I do? I leaped in front of Harold an took the shot for him. Buckshot stings but isn't fatal to a lycanthrope. The wound will heal as soon as the lead is removed. The damned chicken wasn't so lucky though. It'd dead now. What a waste of a business opportunity.

I have to say, though, Julie's a fine shot. She nailed him right between the eyes with a fire dart. It cauterised as it killed.

Jasfoup's Journal

I let Cadfiel have his little joke. It's not as if angels get much of a chance to enjoy humour. I think that's what makes them become arbiters in the first place – a chance to smile. They're the only tier of angels demons can approach without bursting into flames. We call them arbiters because – with Heaven as it is – there are no souls for them to collect. They're there more to debate if the soul goes to Hell or Purgatory. You can bet the soul will ask for the latter but sometimes they're better off serving for petty sins in Hell. Purgatory can be harsh.

Lucy woke up.

Steam punk

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

I couldn't understand why Julie was jumping up and down and yelling at me – they're so volatile, aren't they? Deranged witches, I mean, Not women in general ( though I do generally find them incomprehensible). "Cock! Cock!" she was saying and yes, it was a cock. A deformed rooster if you asked me. "It's all right," I said, "I'll pay the sculptor for it when he arrives. I didn't mean to kill it."

I looked past her to see a man walking toward us from further up the path, He didn't look like a sculptor unless sculptors generally carried antique-looking brass and rosewood pistols but I could be wrong. I'd be annoyed if someone had just (accidentally) killed my pet deformed chicken too.

"Look," I said, pointing. "That's probably the owner."

From the journal of Julie Turling

I tried shouting at Harold but I was so frightened all that came out was 'cock'. He probably thought I was coming onto him or something. When he pointed out the man with a the gun I almost fainted until I remembered I already had a fireball charged up. I fingered the little fetiche holding it in my pocket. Men with guns I can handle.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

The cockatrice wasn't dead. I could see its heart still pumping and smell the life. "It's not dead, chaps," I said. "be we really need a crate or a coat to put it in."

Harold pointed at the bloke with a gun. I could smell the fear coming off him but the chances of that gun having silver shot was minimal. I could take him easily.

And he had a big coat.

Jasfoup's Journal

Having a baby with you doesn't make it easy to get to soul collections on time. By the time I got there, Cadfiel (my opposite number on accidental deaths) and the extracted soul had been waiting five minutes. Cadfiel laughed when he saw me. "I thought the Demon Babysitter was a B-movie until now," he said.

I scowled. "Laugh all you like," I said, "but this little lady means the world to me."

"Aww. The big nasty demon has a heart."

Actually, I have several. All labelled in jars. "Yes," I said. "She's a little angel."

What? No Eggs?

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

It took me a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness and I stumbled about blindly, eventually tripping up and landing on a chicken, which gave one mighty squawk and lay still. I waited for a minute or two for my eyes to adjust and looked about. There was no sign of the sculptor but I seemed to have killed his chicken. I hoped he wouldn't be too upset.

I have to say, though, it was a damned odd chicken. It was all right as far as the shoulders but past that it looked more like an alligator (or crocodile – I could never work out the difference). I picked it up by its enormous chicken legs and half carried, half dragged it outside.

"Look," I said. "I couldn't find the sculptor but at least we won't starve."

From the journal of Julie Turling

I nearly had a heart attack right then an there. Granted Harold had probably never seen a cockatrice (and neither had I for that matter) but to kill it and drag it out of the cave was either really brave or really stupid.

Probably the latter.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

I can't believe Harold actually caught a live cockatrice. If we can get it home we could start a very lucrative business and get rid of anyone we don't like with one fell swoop.

Jasfoup's Journal

My Bloodberry alarm went off to remind me I had an appointment to collect a soul from a gentleman in Shorpe Street. He would, in about ten minutes, die of asphixiation from a chicken bone lodged in his throat.

It took a minute or so to realise I couldn't just portal there. I couldn't leave Frederick in charge of Lucy on his own. I'd have to take her with me.

Image: Cockatrice by Dan Scott

Classics Cock-Up

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

I knocked on the door and called out a 'Hullo?' Actually, I say 'door' but it was more of 'a hole in the rock without a door' that scraped my knuckles a bit and the 'Hullo?' was more of a 'Hullo...hullo...hullo...low...low'. Luckily for me Jasfoup taught me an 'antiseptic' cantrip that prevented any infection. Actually, Jasfoup taught me the 'septic' cantrip and Julie figured out how to reverse it. I hope I got them the right way round else my hand will drop of. Ha-ha.

There was no answer from the exquisite sculptor so I assumed he was asleep. If I squinted hard enough I could just about make out a big pile of straw, though I'd complain about the lighting if I was him. It had to be the dreariest workshop I've ever been in. I couldn't see any tools, either.

I went in.

From the journal of Julie Turling

I can't believe Harold actually went into the cave. I thought he took Classics at Oxford! Didn't someone tell me he'd taken Classics at Oxford? Or did they just mean he robbed a bookstore?

Either way he should know the product of a gorgon by now. Even if it was just from watching 'Clash of the Titans'.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

Small furry animals turned to stone. What's up with that? I wish I knew the reversal spell. It would be like a buffet – and what a brilliant way to preserve food. It'd be like a freezer that never has a use-by date.

Jasfoup's Journal

Lucy woke again a little after two and we watched 'Camberwick green' and 'Trumpton'. I tell you, that Windy Miller fellow is hiding something.

Collected Entries

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

You should see the roads they have here. Honestly, it's a disgrace. We're heading up the mountain and there's hardly more than a trail to walk up and – get this – there's a huge drop on our left that goes down a mile or more and THERE'S NO HANDRAIL or anything to stop you falling odd should a large boulder come tumbling down the path a la Indiana Jones. Honestly, if I had the address of the local council here I'd write to them about it. It's shocking what passes for roads in Faery. I thought the woodland paths were bad but all you risked there was a face full of unicorn dung if you tripped. Here you're looking at a ten minute fall and no in-flight meal.

From the journal of Julie Turling

Harold was terrified of the edge of the path and kept as far away from it as much as he could. It was hilarious. It was a drop of around 250 feet at a guess and we saw lots of sheep. Well, sort-of-sheep. They'd be sheep if they had wool and their horns were different. They had four legs, anyway.

Oops! Harold got a pebble in his shoe. He said it really hurt. Shame.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

What a lovely path. Not too cold and breathtaking views. I felt glad to be alive.
I ate a sheep. Well, a sort-of-sheep.

Jasfoup's Journal.

Egads, babies are utterly repulsive! You'd think a child with royal *Faery) blood wouldn't be so crude but Oh My Dog it was foul. I had to have a cup of Orange Ginseng afterwards to stop my fingers smelling.


Illustration: Andrew Smith

Sculpture Park

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

After ten or fifteen miles we came across a curious sight: eight exquisitely-carved statues reminiscent of Snow White and the seven Persons of Restricted Growth. Quite what they were doing on a mountain path is anybody's guess but they had been here for quite some time to judge by the patina of lichen and moss. The smaller figures had been set up clustered around the taller, as if protecting her and all had a skilfully executed look of abject horror on their faces.

The sculptor was still in business, mind. We could see a cave up ahead with some newer statues clustered around outside, though none of them had price tags on. You could make a small fortune selling these at home. I'll enquire about bulk purchase discounts.

Whoever the artist is, they're also very good at small animals. Dozens of them litter the place. He must make them as practice pieces, though I was disturbed to find some of then had been sculpted partially eaten. Very cleverly indeed, where the 'bite marks' were, the sculptor had carve bones and internal organs. It was like looking at a fossil that might come alive at any moment – except that as soon as they did, they'd die, of course.

From the journal of Julie Turling

Gods! I always wondered what had happened to Snow White when the evil stepmother died. Here she is, surrounded by her lovers snf turned to stone. Cockatrice, basilisk or gorgon? Why didn't I pack a mirror? I debated it. Perhaps Mr. Vanity has one. I could always trot the half-mile or so back to the portal and ask Jasfoup for one.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

Statues! I cam smell the urine of wolves and foxes sprayed on them. I found them some time before Harold and Julie caught up, which gave me enough time to add my own scent.

Jasfoup's Journal

Just time for a cup of Assam before supper. Why are there odd socks in the teapot?

Retrospectively Told

From the journal of Harold the Fearless

So we went through the portal expecting warm summer sunshine and it turns out we're in the footholds of a mountain range in the middle of a bleak dark winter. Of course, I'm chilly but adequate in my leather jacket but Julie whines back as Jasfoup asking for a jumper, a coat, a blanket and a duvet. Finally she's satisfied and we head out, Felicia bounding ahead.

From the journal of Julie Turling

Harold was a prig and wouldn't give me his spare blanket. Jasfoup pretended he couldn't hear what I was saying and passed a bloody newspaper through the portal and Fliss loped off looking for something to kill. I swear, if the faeries don't kill them I will. At least Jasfoup sent a coat through in the end.

I magicked all the sugar out of Harold's thermos of tea.

From the journal of Felicia Turling

I left the others bickering and scouted ahead. It was a bit chilly but not desperately so.

Jasfoup's Journal.

I had Darjeeling with lemon and fed Lucy. Honestly, how do they expect kids to eat properly when all the food looks like green semolina? I'm dreading the nappy change already.

Irritating Habits

I've developed a nervous habit over the years and tend to fall back on it when I'm actually genuinely worried about something. Such was the case now, with Harold, Julie and Felicia stepping through the portals into the land of the dark Fae possibly to never be seen again.

I pick my nose. Yes, I realise it may not be a revelation that demons pick their noses. What may surprise you is my ability to mould figures out of the lumps of odorous putty and animate them using a minor version of the spell we found for making golems. I can send these little homunculi into the world to perform simple tasks – mostly involving entering houses and exploding. Didn't you ever wonder where that lump of green putty you stepped on came from? I bet you blamed the cat.

What I was worried about was this: What if they met their untimely deaths before catching up with Edward Jose Thorburn and dragging him back through the portal dead or alive (though preferably alive since as a necromancer he might have arranged all sorts of things for when he died. I mean, we might be unlucky enough to have a lich on our hands – the first in England's Green and Pleasant since Cromwell left the field.

What then of my promise to Ranelio to open his soul for collection? I'd lose my bet and everything.

Oh – and I'd have to find someone to look after Lucy.



Image: Hellbender or Snot Otter (Cryptobranchus alleganiensis).

One Final Prank

Once they went through the portal they milled about a bit. Julie started miming to me – most amusing that she stood in front of the portal and wrapped her arms around herself shivering. I got the message and fetched what she needed, tossing it through the portal for her.

I don't think she realised that sound could travel through the portal, though I could hear her perfectly well.* "Why," she was saying to Harold, "has he just sent me a yellowed copy of the Liverpool Daily Post?"

"How should I know?" he replied. "Why don't you ask him?"

She stood in front of the portal holding the newspaper, pointing to it and mouthing 'why?'
Amusing as it was, I was getting bored of the joke.

"I thought you wanted to know where the scariest place in England was," I said.

"I can hear you!" she said. "Harold, I can hear him!"

"Of course you can," said Harold. "Portals always carry sound. You should know that."

"I did," said Julie. "I do, I mean. I just thought this one didn't." She shook her head. "Never mind. Jasfoup, it's cold here. I need a coat."

Here," I said, tossing through the one I'd picked up at the same time as the newspaper. "Have fun."

"Huh!" Julie scowled. Harold and Felicia were already several yards away. "See you later."

"Unless I see you first," I said. "Ciao."

Minutes later they were out of sight and I had no way of knowing what was happening with them. Ah well.

Time for tea.

*possibly because I had mouthed the words 'Goodbye, be careful and don't talk to any bug-eyed monsters' without actually saying the words. She'd cupped her hand to her ear and mouthed 'what?' but I'd just done a palms-up shrug and waved her off.

Three Little Piggies

True to her promise to accompany Harold, Julie agreed to go despite the misunderstanding of he quarry but insisted they take Felicia with them. Despite my desire to go for my customary walk with the dog I could see the advantage of them taking Felicia. Feary mountains often indicated the (even) dark(er) aspects of Fae society – trolls, duegar, weres, shapeshifters, snirfbelin* high elves* and ogres. Not that I was in a desperate hurry to reveal this information; there was no need to put the willies up them when there was a good** chance they wouldn't meet any at all.***

We had another cup of tea as we waited while Felicia was woken, showered, arranged to have the gallery opened by her assistant, dressed in her one piece stretch-nylon harness and packed her needle gun and monofilament knife. "It's all very well being traditional," she said, "but I'd rather lop the heads off than debate philosophy."

I conceded the point, and since neither Fae nor the dead have souls didn't really care either way. When my three little piggies were ready, I waved them into the portal and said farewell.


*snirfbelin – descendants of goblins from before the division of the planes; high elves – ditto but from elves
** one in four at least
*** just zombies, ghouls, ghosts, ghasts, wights, banshees and shambling horrors.

Leaf Pickers

We had a cup of tea while we waited for Julie to be ready. I'm not entirely sure why she showered – the land behind the portal looked filthy to me – but then I've never been able to understand women. Give me the honest, unwashed stink of a man any night. There's something vaguely disturbing about soap, I've always thought, as if the removal and masking of bodily odours indicates some sort of skulduggery in the offing.

Julie was ready at last though I was surprised at her light blouse and skirt and large backpack full of spellbooks and empty jars (it isn't often you get to go to Faerie and she intended to make the most of it by gathering specimens and spell components). She spotted my expression. "Harold said it's always mild and sunny in the forests of Faerie."

I nodded. "Mostly," I said, "and you can always use a leaf as an umbrella if it rains."

"Super," she said, picking up a sturdy walking stick. "I expect we'll be in and out of there in no time. What was it we were looking for again? A soul leaf?"

"Soul thief," I said. "A necromancer."

"Oh?" She glared at Harold. "I thought only Wednesdays were a black hole of misunderstanding."


Image: Hillwalker

Spellcraft and Saber-rattling

Harold dressed in his 'lucky' Spiderman boxers and headed down to his studio. not that he was an artist – of any kind – but he had a study / workshop on the first floor in which to conduct magical experiments. (Other than the cellars and the attic, it was the one room in the whole mansion where he could cast a pentacle without it being broken by pipes or wires under the floorboards) Ever since Lucy was born he's preferred to call this space his 'studio' as if he were some bohemian dr. Faustus. It could have been worse – he could have called it 'laboratory'.

He picked up his pocket book of spells and went to drag Julie out of bed. His spell book is very interesting. Every magician I've ever known has followed the traditional path of great tomes of vellum bound in skin (human or otherwise) in which to record their craft – as if the grandness of the book imparts some extra gravitas to their ability with the craft. Not so Harold. Embracing both old and new, he has a pocket-sized tome (bound in goatskin purchased on e-bay) in which he glues sheets printed from his word processor. If he wasn't so possessive of spells it's taken him years to research, I'd suggest he market the idea. He'd make a small fortune.*

"I'm ready," he said, buckling on a sword belt and saber. "Now where's this dratted portal?"


*small being the operative word – mages are few and far between and mages willing to spend money rarer still.

All you Need is L-- er... Leverage

Harold looked perturbed when I finished telling him about the trip to Offley Street.

"Then what?" he said. "Did the hero get the girl or what? You stopped halfway through."

"What hero?" I said. "Have you listened to a single word?"

"Of course." Harold pulled his duvet over is lap and rested his cup there. "This Winston fellow is obviously in love with the Welsh bint so the story should end with a 'happily for weeks'."

"It's not a story, Harold. This is where I was all day yesterday. You know Winston and Meinwen. They've both been to this house in the past. Now I have a Faery portal in the workshop that contains a wanted felon. and I can't winkle him out."

"Wanted by Hell's minions," said Harold. "I can't say I blame him, really. Stay in Faery or go and have a boiling lava bath in Hell for the rest of eternity?"

"He slaughtered his own wife and children, Harold. That would be like you killing Lucy to open a Gate. This is worse than your Grandfather Herbert. He was an evil so-and-so but at least he never got as far as sacrificing his own children – or anyone else's for that matter."

"Well what am I supposed to do about it?" said Harold. "You tried, you failed, you came crying to me. End of story."

"It's not the end of the story at all," I said, wishing for someone else to ask. I could ask Julie, I suppose, but she doesn't have the innate cheery 'luck of the devil'* that Harold has possessed since birth. "I need you to go in and pull Thorburn out of Faery so he can get his just desserts."

"Pudding?" said Harold. "Why didn't you say?"



*quite literally

To Tell a Tale

Monday morning brought all the children dragging themselves back to school and a collective sigh of relief from the shopkeepers in the town. Trade would begin to increase in the run-up to Christmas but for now there was the briefest of lulls to be enjoyed. Harold, in typical fashion, took the day off and left Julie to cope with the shop on her own with just permission to call him in if any of his 'special customers' called.*

This gave me the perfect opportunity to discuss yesterday's jaunt with him and to sweeten the pill, as it were, I took him breakfast on a tray.

"Where's Devious?" he said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes with his fists like they only ever do in cartoons. "I haven't seen him since yesterday morning."

"Oh.." I gave him a clenched-tooth grin. "I send him on an errand. he'll be back in a day or two."

"A day or two?" Harold frowned. "What takes an imp a day or two? They're the most efficient little workers I've ever seen."

"Shh! I pressed two fingers against his lips. "Don't say things like that! You never know who's listening."

"Who would be?"

"Another imp!"

"Oh." Harold took a sip of Darjeeling and brightened. "So where were you yesterday?"

"Ah," I said. "Let me tell you a little tale..."


*generally this refers to angels, demons and other denizens selling books and any order that required a book from the stacks to be reproduced.**

**i.e. forged

All Souls go to Hell

I have to admit I left the portal alone after that. I'd spent all afternoon on it and needed to catch up on a few things. People don't stop dying just because I'm busy, after all, and I do have quite a large area to take care of. Souls need to be comforted and extracted from their bodies, debated over with my opposite number from Upstairs* and sent to Hell.

Instead I had an evening of normal banter with Harold, Felicia, Frederick, Julie and even Gillian, and took a turn at holding little Lucy and wondering if she'll ever actually play with the doll's house that is causing me so much trouble.



*Technically, all souls have a chance of going to Heaven if they've led a blameless life and repented all sins** In practice, this almost always proves not to be the case, though in rare cares (less than one in ten thousand) the soul is invited to remain with its body until Judgement Day when it can go to Heaven after all.***

**The definition of a sin is subject to revision at any time. What might not have been a sin yesterday may well be relabelled today

***Unless the body is cremated, which is also a no-no, Heavenwise.

Is there any Tea?

Meinwen went home to have her supper and do whatever it is that single people without televisions do on a Sunday Night – listen to their crystal radio, I suppose – and Winston and I walked round to his garage with the portal. I was rather glad he survived the day, if truth be told, since he is a useful chap to have about. Not that that I trust him as far as I can spit; you can never truly trust an elf, I don't think. A leopard never changes his shorts.

I settled up with him (cash in hand to avoid the tax – a sin that counts as theft but doesn't even affect the afterlife of an elf -- Winston is all too aware of the afterlife awaiting him – and we loaded the portal into the van and headed off to the Manor. We detoured past Offley Street to see all the flashing lights. They'd closed off the whole road and had even begun to set up an incident room despite the place being less than a mile from the police station on High Street. They'd probable declare the whole family missing unless the corpse in the cellar had been the mother and I knew Winston and Meinwen would keep the secrets we'd uncovered.

The Manor gates were open so Winston was able to drive me right to the stable yard and help me stash the portal in the same dreary workshop we'd started studying the doll's house in. We set the portal facing the wall and hefted the tool bench against it. No-one was coming in that way. I bid him adieu and went into the kitchen where Harold was sat at the table eating a sandwich and watching the local news.

"Look at this," he said. "An anonymous tip led police to a house with a couple of corpses in."

"Oh?" I said. "How tedious for them. Is there tea in the pot?"

All Souls

We left the way we'd come in, with the simple addition of a small corruption spell in every room to remove any DNA or fingerprint evidence of Winston or Meinwen – or mine, come to that, but they'd be scratching their heads over demon DNA – since it's possible that the British police have discovered modern forensic techniques. CSI might still be science fiction but I've seen all those little index cards they have with people's fingerprints on them.

Once we'd fought our way back through the brambles and out past the back gate (collecting the terracotta pots of bones on the way) we headed to the corner of Offley street where Meinwen called the police to report a dead body at number 34. They were certainly in for a surprise though thankfully no longer a fatal one. There was nothing left in the house that a HASMAT suit couldn't cope with and Inspector White would have a field day with all the blood and bodies. It'd keep him out of our way (hopefully) for weeks.

"Is it still Christmas morning?" Meinwen asked. "It feels like we've been in that house forever."

"What are you on?" said Winston. "Sunday evenin' innit?" And I recon I'm owed a full weeks pay for an afternoons work.

I nodded. "I suppose so," I said. "Just nip us back to the manor in your van, would you? I don't dare carry a Faery portal though an Infernal one."

"Why?" said Meinwen. "What would happen?"

"Did you ever see the episode of Doctor Who where they stack one Tardis inside another?" I said.

"She nodded. "Years ago," she said, "Would it be like that then?"

"No," I said. "Not at all."