“Ah.” The small word was almost a sigh. “Then perhaps you might have more luck with this.”
From inside his dark blue wool overcoat Sir Alec withdrew a roughly oblong brown paper parcel, lumpily tied with string, and laid it almost delicately on the kitchen table. As soon as he saw it, Monk felt another hot sizzle… this time a warning of thaumaturgical danger. Since he’d not felt it before now, it meant Sir Alec’s expensive overcoat was protected by a shielding hex.
Crafty.
“This was delivered to my office today,” said Sir Alec. “It’s-”
“I know what it is,” Monk said, fighting the urge to retreat. “A blood hex.”
Sir Alec nodded, regretful. “I’m afraid so.”
The hex’s murky siren call bubbled thickly through his blood. He could feel its residual miasma slickly, sickly, coating his potentia. On the hob, the kettle started to boil. Staring at the deceptively innocuous parcel on the table, he ignored its shrill singing.
“And you want me to deconstruct the bloody thing? Is that why you’re here?”
Sir Alec nodded again. “It is.”
Belly churning, Monk swallowed.
Dammit. Why me?
Up went Sir Alec’s supercilious eyebrow. “Because there’s no-one else, Mister Markham. I thought we’d long ago established that.”
This was his kitchen, in his house, and Sir Alec had barged in without an invitation. “Look,” he said, close to snarling, and moved to silence the shrieking kettle. The blood hex was scraping his nerves to ribbons. “Stop doing that, all right? I don’t like it. And I don’t like being taken for granted, either. Or being ambushed outside my own bloody home.”
“Indeed,” said Sir Alec. “And is there anything else you don’t like, Mister Markham? While we’re on the subject, and before we turn our attention to matters that actually matter.”
It would be a grave mistake to throw the kettle. Seething, Monk made them both coffee, liberally laced it with brandy, then shoved Sir Alec’s mug across the table in his general direction.
“Feel free to burn your tongue on it. Sir.”
Sir Alec left his mug where it was. “I need that blood hex deconstructed tonight, Mister Markham.”
Looking at the seemingly innocuous parcel was hard. His gaze kept trying to skitter away. “Gerald sent it?”
“Yes.”
“Whose blood is it? Abel Bestwick’s?”
“Yes.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“Bestwick?” Sir Alec shook his head. “No.”
Glowering, Monk risked a sip from his own steaming mug. “From Gerald.”
“No.”
Another sip of coffee. The brandy bolstered his faltering courage. “Prob’ly he can’t get through. According to R amp;D’s monitors, Splotze’s etheretics are a dog’s breakfast just now. I’ve been keeping an eye on ’em.”
“As have I,” said Sir Alec, and reached for his own coffee. “I trust you’re being discreet?”
“No, actually,” he said, staring. “Just this afternoon I stood on my desk and made a general announcement.”
Sir Alec sighed. “Mister Markham…”
“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “Since you asked for a list, I’m also not too fond of being insulted.”
“Point taken,” said Sir Alec, after a moment.
Really? Bloody hell. The man had to be sickening for something. Warier than ever, Monk put down his mug, pulled out a chair and sat. Braced his elbows on the table and forced himself to stare at the paper-wrapped hex.
“I take it you haven’t opened this?” he said, flicking a glance at Sir Alec.
“It wasn’t necessary.”
Now it was his turn to sigh. “I need a minute. Ward the kitchen, would you? Sir?”
There was no actual, university-approved method of preparing to handle these kind of dangerous thaumaturgics. The closest the textbooks got to sage advice was don’t do it. But his time in the labyrinth of Research and Development had taught him the hard way that launching into any flavour of compromised thaumaturgical deconstructions without some kind of preparation was a guarantee of blood on the walls. Usually, but not always or exclusively, it belonged to the wizard attempting the deconstruction.
So, as Sir Alec quietly and methodically went about warding the kitchen to prevent the accidental leakage of antithetical subthaumicles, Monk cleared his mind of extraneous thoughts- Blimey, Gerald, I hope you three are all right — and encouraged his pulse rate to slow down before his heart wore out.
His hands were sweating. He wiped them dry on his chest.
“In your own time, Mister Markham,” said Sir Alec, leaning against the sink with his arms folded and his face blank.
In other words, Get on with it.
He took a deep breath. Let it out slowly, willing the fear to breath out too. Glanced up. “I’m ready. But look, if Reg comes back while I’m-”
“Rest easy, Mister Markham,” Sir Alec said. “I promise to keep the bird out of your hair.”
“Yeah, good, fine,” he said, frowning. “Only, y’know, nicely. Don’t forget she’s had a rough trot and she’s still not herself.”
“Mister Markham.”
Right.
On another deep breath, Monk reached for the parcel. Tried not to notice how his fingers trembled as he unknotted the string and discarded it, along with the crumpled brown paper wrapping. And then stifled a curse as they touched the raggedly square, bloodstained, hexed piece of old blue carpet.
Oh, Gerald. What are you mixed up in now?
Vaguely he was aware of Sir Alec’s gasp of startled discomfort. So, the man was human. Vulnerable, even. That was nice to know. Perhaps. And something else to set aside, as he faced the blood magic in all its malevolent perfection.
The warm kitchen seemed to chill as he focused his potentia on the daunting task before him. The lamplit air cooled from comforting yellow to unfriendly blue. His heart thumped. His skin crawled. With a growing sense of alarm he began to doubt he was the right wizard for this.
“Yes, you are, Mister Markham,” said Sir Alec, from a long way away. “I have every faith in you. Now stop dithering and do your job.”
Stop dithering? Stop dithering?
You miserable sarky bugger. I hope you choke on those cigarettes.
He closed his eyes. Released his fear. Flattened both palms firmly, deliberately against the hexed piece of carpet, and plunged himself into the dark hell of grimoire magic.
Time melted. Turned liquid. Became molten glass. Trapped in a burning prism, he struggled and shuddered and fought. The hex’s filthy thaumaturgical field was an ocean of pitiless acid. Burning, it stripped him to bare, bloody bones, scoured him clean of all conceit and any faith in his powers. He swam its currents with desperation, always two shallow gasps from drowning.
Bugger this, Gerald. I wish you were here.
No. No. He couldn’t afford to think about Gerald. Or Bibbie. Or Melissande. Let himself get distracted and he really would drown.
The blood magic incant whipped around him like rope in a tornado. Every attempt to snatch it to stillness failed. He was tired, so bloody tired, but he didn’t dare give up. He was a Markham, and Markhams always won.
Except when we lose.
He could feel the panic rising, feel the bitter cold of defeat.
I can’t do this. I’m not Gerald. I’m no rogue.
From so far away that it felt like a dream, he heard a soft and familiar voice.
“- age, Mister Markham. Courage. One foot in front of the other. It’s not acceptable for you to fall over now.”
Irritated, he twitched the words away like a horse wrinkling its skin to discourage a fly.
Bloody Sir Alec Oldman. Sir Manky. Sir Secret Government Stooge. All his fault, this was.
I could be having a bath.
Battered by the relentless thaumaturgical stresses, Monk strained his potentia way past what he knew was safe. He could feel the sweat pouring, hear the air rasping in his throat. How long now had he been fighting? He had no idea. The hex was half blood magic, half thaumaturgical barbed wire.