Witches Incorporated (2 page)

Nothing. The gates’ locking incant buzzed fuzzily through his gloves.
Fuzzily
…

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “You
idiot
, Gerald.”

With a fingersnap and a single command he deactivated the anti-etheretic shield that stifled his unique thaumic imprint. Wearing the wretched thing was a bit like enduring faulty earplugs. He wasn’t thaumaturgically deaf, not exactly, but he was definitely compromised. No wonder he couldn’t get past the hexed gates. He hated the shield, and had said so, forcibly, but nobody would listen. In the end he’d taken his complaints to Sir Alec. Softly-spoken and blandly nondescript, the man lurked in the shadows of every Department conversation. As though he could see through walls and read thoughts from a distance. Even when he was absent, his presence at janitorial headquarters was inescapable. He was the absolute, ultimate authority.

But Sir Alec hadn’t had any sympathy either.

“Mister Dunwoody,” he’d said, his pale grey eyes severe, “stop wasting my time. Your identity must remain obscure and so far that shield is the best method we can contrive. So you’ll not put one toe in public without first activating your thaumic obfuscator, is that clear? The last thing we need is anybody noticing you.”

And of course, Sir Alec was right. Janitorial agent Gerald Dunwoody couldn’t afford to stand out in any way. Which was also why Monk had devised a nifty little incant that turned his silvered blind eye brown again. The change wasn’t permanent; even with Monk’s best efforts it wore off after five hours or so, but it was easily reapplied. And with both incants activated he could pass muster as the old Gerald Dunwoody, with two normal-looking eyes and a lousy Third Grade thaumic signature.

The good old days.

With the shield-incant cancelled he could feel his muffled senses coming alive again. Feel the ebb and flow of the ether, fluctuations in the thaumic currents. He could feel his rogue powers, simmering gently beneath his ordinary surface.

Ever since joining Sir Alec’s department—whenever he wasn’t studying the complicated rules of domestic and foreign thaumaturgic policing and how to apply them without creating fourteen different kinds of international incident—he’d cautiously explored his newfound abilities. So far he’d not met a First Grade incant he couldn’t master: something that had him swinging wildly between elation and trepidation. One minute he was awash with heart-pounding apprehension—
nobody should have this much power, not even me
—and the next he was terrified he’d wake up to find it vanished and himself returned to unremarkable mediocrity.

He was still waiting for that pendulum to stop.

And then there was the dizzying parade of mysterious Department experts who came to examine him, who’d smiled vaguely, politely, and said, “
Call me Doc
.” They’d poked him and prodded him, run test after test, pulled faces and gone away again, never bothering to share their findings with their subject. He’d hated it, hotly resenting being kept in the dark. He was the one being poked and prodded, wasn’t he? Jumped through hoops like a dog at the circus? He had a right to know exactly who and what he was, didn’t he?

No. Apparently he didn’t. Not according to Sir Alec, anyway, whose continued lack of sympathy had been chilling… if not entirely unexpected.

“It’s not a question of us wanting to control you, Mister Dunwoody,” Sir Alec said briskly. “When the time’s right we’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

“And when will that be?” he’d demanded. “I don’t think you understand what this is like. Knowing what I’m capable of. Knowing what’s ticking away inside me.
Not
knowing what I’m—you’re—
we’re
going to do about it.”

Sir Alec had sat back in his leather armchair then, and shifted his pale grey gaze to stare through his office window at the dreary suburban street outside.

“Well, I rather think that’s the crux of the problem, don’t you?” he asked, surprisingly mild. “You
don’t
know what you’re capable of, any more than we do. The truth is we’re still trying to figure you out.”

“Oh,” Gerald said, taken aback. “So… what does that mean? Does it mean I can’t even be trusted as a janitor? That I’m stuck in this mausoleum for the rest of my life, performing tricks for visiting Department thaumaturgists?”

“No, of course not,” Sir Alec retorted, and leaned forward with his elbows braced on his desk. “It’s not a question of trust. It’s a question of making sure we handle this unique situation properly. Mister Dun-woody, I thought your experiences in New Ottosland would’ve made the danger obvious. King Lional wasn’t the only ambitious man in the world. There are other people—entire governments, actually—who, if they knew of your existence, might well go to quite dramatic lengths to get their hands on you.”

It was like being doused with a bucket of ice-water. “Are you saying I’m some kind of
target
?”

Sighing, Sir Alec sat back again. “I’m saying this is a game full of hypothetical scenarios. I’m saying one of the things I get paid to do is dream up potential disasters and then concoct ways of preventing—or in the worst case, surviving—them. But the operative word here is
hypothetical
. Really, Mister Dunwoody, you must not be an alarmist.”

“I’ll stop if you stop,” he retorted. “I agreed to join your team so I could do some good in the world, not sit around in basements giving thaumic contabulators hysterics.”

“One step at a time, Mister Dunwoody,” said Sir Alec, infuriatingly bland. “If we’re to teach you how to protect the world and its innocents from nefarious individuals, first we must fully understand what makes you tick. So you need to be patient. Let us complete our investigation. When that’s done, we can talk again.”

Investigation
. Sir Alec had made him sound like a—a
crime
. Although maybe that wasn’t such a poor choice of words. What had happened in New Ottosland… that had been criminal.

Of course, in the end he’d swallowed his anger and frustration and suffered the Department’s endless, ongoing examinations. What other choice did he have? He had nowhere else to go. The government’s position had been made perfectly clear: rogue wizards were untidy. They couldn’t be left… lying about.

“There’s no point squealing, mate,” Monk told him a week later when he brought the eye-changing incant for testing. “Sir Alec’s the best in the business. He knows what he’s doing—
and
he’s right. I can name two unfriendly governments and four dubious companies who’d love to bottle what you’ve got. And that’s just off the top of my head. So you stay put here for as long as Sir Alec tells you. Let the boffins run all the tests they want, twice. You’ll be safe that way.”

And that had given him a horrible jolt.

Monk was afraid for him? Why? What did he know that Sir Alec wasn’t saying?

“There’s no need to panic, Gerald,” Monk had added, reading him with unerring accuracy, as usual. “There’s nothing in the wind. Sir Alec’s just… being careful. Don’t worry about it.”

So he hadn’t. Or at least, not very much. Instead he’d endured the ongoing poking and prodding and rehashing of what had happened in New Ottosland, and put all his leftover energy into his janitorial studies. And he must have done something right because here he was at the front gates of the haunted house, ready to prove without doubt that Gerald Dun-woody was up to the task of being one of Sir Alec’s junior janitors. Ready to start paying back the debt he owed his dead.

In which case, Dunnywood, it’s past time you got this show on the road.

He tugged off his gloves, shoved them in his pocket, then ran his fingers lightly over the hexed gates’ weathered wrought iron. That was better. He could read the incant properly now—and it was a right little sod, too, prickly as a thornbush. Intricately tangled. Deviously devised. Tasting of stinkweed, scented with deception.

Is this one of Monk’s hexes? I’ll bet it’s one of Monk’s. I’m sure I can catch a whiff of Monkishness in here
…

But he wasn’t only sensing his friend’s familiar, anarchic thaumic signature. This incant felt like a joint operation. More than one wizard had helped to create it. So the Department’s best were ganging up on him, were they? He grinned.

You want to play, chaps? All right. Let’s play.

Except the game swiftly became deadly serious, because as far as thaumaturgic tests went this one was murder. The hex actually
did
test him, which was no mean feat. He was a rogue wizard, after all. Challenges like this were supposed to be
easy
.

At least he thought they were.

Oh, well. If it was easy they wouldn’t call it a test, would they?

Sweating, swearing, he dismantled the convoluted hex one brilliant, stubborn strand at a time. Monk and his mates had really pulled out all the stops, doubling and redoubling the bindings, slyly tricking him with feints and misdirections that left his fingers stinging and his hair standing on end. But in the end he was victorious. After nearly half an hour of squinting concentration the incant’s final binding snapped and he was rewarded by the gates slowly swinging wide on soundless hinges.

One fist pumped above his head in a restrained exhibition of triumph. “Ha!
Yes
! Choke on
that
, Mister Markham! You and your fancy Research and Development chums!”

Not that he was taking the hex personally, of course. Chances were that Monk didn’t even know who it was being designed for. Sir Alec was a master at keeping secrets, after all. But either way—whether Monk was in on the game or not—there was no denying the deep satisfaction of defeating the best thaumaturgy a team of First Grade wizards could throw at him. Because rightly or wrongly, it was going to take a lot longer than six months to forget what being a despised Third Grade wizard had felt like.

By now the early morning’s blanket of mist had almost completely burned away, so the sun was free to gild the hedgerows and grass verges that bordered the country lane. Wild snapdragons and shy blue-bells danced among the untidy greenery. Tiny scarlet-faced finches hopped and strutted on spindly legs. Momentarily distracted, Gerald smiled. After so long in grimly tarmacked and cobblestoned Nettleworth, where the only grass to be found was in a painting, Finkley Meadows was a literal breath of fresh air. But there was no time to appreciate its postcard prettiness right now. Right now he had more tests to pass.

Abruptly sober, remembering with a nasty twinge
why
he’d just unravelled that hex, Gerald took a deep breath, cautiously stepped through the gates, and only jumped an inch or two when they slammed shut behind him. On another deep breath, his heart again banging at his ribs, he started walking towards the Department house’s distant front door. More oak trees lined each side of the gravel driveway, their spreading branches and boisterous foliage blotting out the clear blue sky. Beyond their ragged sentinel stand, an unkempt garden swallowed open ground. Lacy shreds of mist tangled amongst the snarled undergrowth, and an ominous chill seeped upwards through the untamed grass, smelling old, and rank, and angry.

He shivered.
So much for picturesque.

Despite the general theme of “Don’t tell the new chum anything about the establishment,” a couple of the younger, more recently recruited agents he’d met in passing at headquarters had let one or two small hints slip. Apparently every trainee agent ended up here at the house, where they faced a test designed specifically for them. If they passed, congratulations. Welcome to one of the most dangerous jobs in the world. Have fun and don’t forget to sign your will.

“And if we fail?” he’d asked. “What happens then?”

No-one knew. Not for certain. But failed trainees were never seen again.

Remembering
that
, Gerald shoved his gloveless hands in his overcoat pockets, scrunched his shoulders round his ears and walked a little faster. Nothing but a hobgoblin story, surely. The government couldn’t go around
disappearing
people. That would be illegal. No, the agents had been playing tricks on him. Probably the senior agents had put the juniors up to it. Old dogs geeing up the new pup. Having some fun at his expense.

“That’s all it is, Reg,” he said in passing to the wood pigeon staring at him from a nearby low branch. “Them taking the mickey. I’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ll be
fine
.”

The pigeon, who actually didn’t look much like Reg at all, really the only thing they had in common were the feathers, cocked its head to one side and cooed down at him, dimly.

He sighed. “Right. Yes. Thanks so much for that. Very helpful. Most inspiring.”

Lord, he missed Reg.

It occurred to him then, steadily walking, that the house at the end of the driveway wasn’t getting any
closer
. In fact, it seemed to be further away now than when he’d started.

He stopped. Looked behind him. The closed gates seemed the right distance away, given how long he’d been walking. How
strange
. He looked back to the house—

—and nearly fell over, because he was on the other side of the gates again, in the muddy laneway, looking through the wrought-iron bars at misty, haphazard chimney pots and higgledy-piggledy gables.

His jaw dropped. “Bloody hell!”

This time the hex wasn’t the same one he’d so painstakingly unravelled a few minutes ago—but it was just as tricky and demanding. He nearly went cross-eyed dismantling it, but at long last the gates swung open. Practically bolting through, he paid no attention as they slammed shut behind him. Put his head down, sprinted for the house—