Cup and Sorcery E-Book

Tony Lewis

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Ollie and the crew are back!

The Fibulan Museum has been burgled, and our intrepid detectives are appointed to solve the mystery. But this is no ordinary crime.

During their investigation, they find themselves undertaking a quest of literally epic proportions, while hoping that they can stave off disaster and avoid seeing Mrs. Ladle's legs.

Can Ollie and his friends survive the treacherous journey and defeat the forces of darkness?

Leseprobe

Cup and Sorcery

Skullenia Book 2

Tony Lewis

Copyright (C) 2017 Tony Lewis

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Cup and Sorcery

The small dark room crackled and sizzled, as if tiny suspended fireworks were exploding in mid-air, sending particles of myriad colours cascading to the floor. The atmosphere felt alive with electricity, making it feel as if a thousand Van De Graff generators had been turned on at the same time. In the centre of the room was a stone plinth, atop which sat a large marble bowl. Inside the bowl, fluid swirled round and round as if it were being churned by an unseen centrifugal force. In the depths of the liquid, what seemed to be wisps of smoke eddied in the opposite direction, and every now and again a blurred, vague shape tried to form and break through the maelstrom.

The hunched figure sat on a three legged wooden stool, hooded head leaning over the container, eyes unblinking, peering intently into the murky miasma. Hands were raised and sleeves were folded carefully back, before fingers were waved over the bowl in intricate patterns. At the same time, whispered incantations passed from tight, dry lips, attempting to invoke the aid of some otherworldly power.

“Demons of darkness come to me

Show me what I long to see

A gift of blood I freely give

So that you may help me live.”

A small knife appeared in the figure's right hand, with which the palm of the left hand was deftly sliced open. Claret beads dripped into the milky mixture as a fist was made and squeezed tight. The liquid turned a light red, and as each drop splashed down it circled faster and faster until a pinkish foam appeared on its surface.

“A sign or clue is all I ask

To aid me in my onerous task

Show me the answer to the text

So I can do that which is next.”

The indistinct patterns and swirls moved closer together until they started to mingle and coalesce, until finally they formed one larger mass. As more drops of lifeblood entered the concoction the shape became more and more distinct, recognisable features beginning to appear in the watery pool. Suddenly, the charged atmosphere in the room became thicker, making the air heavy and difficult to breathe. A wispy fog seemed to emanate from the walls, floor and ceiling, as if the very fabric of the building itself were perspiring.

The mixture in the bowl then thickened and stopped moving, and a small bulge appeared in the centre. It rose higher and higher until it was about four feet tall. Two protrusions formed, one on either side, at the ends of which five small buds appeared, wiggling purposefully as they grew. The top of the muddy column was forming a rough sphere which quickly smoothed out, allowing the beginnings of facial features to show through. Under the burgeoning nose a split formed, which widened as if in a yawn, showing a tongue and a set of sharp teeth.

The hooded figure watched in rapt and unadulterated fascination as the outline took on its final form. The wiggling stumps were now fully functional hands and digits that moved languidly, as if the being itself were amazed at its newly found corporeality and was studying it carefully. Pitch black soulless eyes stared out from deep sockets and the lips smacked together, as if the apparition were indicating that it needed a drink. Those lips parted, and when it spoke the voice penetrated the summoner to their very core. It was a deep, rumbling bass that resonated around the room, to the point that the listener could have sworn that they could see sound waves emanating from its mouth.

“WHY HAVE YOU SUMMONED ME, MORTAL?”

“To aid me in my quest,” the hooded figure replied in a timid and trembling voice. “To translate the text before me and locate…”

“I KNOW OF WHAT YOU SPEAK, MORTAL, BUT I CANNOT HELP YOU WITH THE COMPENDIUM DE MAGICUS TOTALUS.”

“May I be permitted to ask why, dark one?”

“THAT BOOK WAS WRITTEN HUNDREDS OF YEARS AGO BY A RENEGADE GOD. IT SHOULD HAVE REMAINED UNSEEN BY HUMAN EYES, BUT IT FELL INTO MORTAL HANDS. THE RESULTING CHAOS WAS CATACLYSMIC.”

“In what way?”

“THE MORTAL WHO TRANSLATED THE TEXT USED IT IN AN ATTEMPT TO RULE OVER YOUR WORLD, AND OURS. THAT COULD NOT BE ALLOWED TO HAPPEN, SO HE WAS DESTROYED.”

“Why wasn't the book destroyed if it had the capability to cause so much trouble?”

“IT WAS FORMED BY THE GODS THEMSELVES. IT CANNOT BE TORN ASUNDER, SO IT WAS HIDDEN FOR CENTURIES IN PLAIN SIGHT AS AN INTERESTING RELIC.”

“But I have no interest in destroying the Gods or attempting to take over their world. My interest is dominion in the mortal realm.”

“IF THAT IS THE CASE, THEN PERHAPS WE CAN COME TO ACCEPTABLE TERMS.”

“Such as?”

“IF I ASSIST YOU AND YOU ARE SUCCESSFUL IN YOUR QUEST, YOU WILL BE GRANTED RULE OVER YOUR WORLD, BUT YOU WILL BECOME OUR VESSEL. A CONDUIT, THROUGH WHICH OUR BIDDING CAN BE DONE.”

“Agreed.”

“VERY WELL. FIVE STRANGERS WILL BECOME KNOWN TO YOU, AND IT IS THROUGH THEM THAT THE TEXT WILL BE TRANSLATED. ONE OF THEM WILL DISCOVER THE SECRET, FOR IT MUST BE FOUND BY ONE ABLE TO DECIPHER IT, RATHER THAN TOLD BY THOSE WHO ALREADY KNOW. THEN IT WILL BE THESE FIVE WHO COMPLETE THE QUEST.”

“Why them and not me?”

“THE WIELDER OF THE ARTEFACT MUST NOT BE THE DISCOVERER. SO IT IS WRITTEN. THE CHOICE IS YOURS, MORTAL. DO YOU STILL AGREE?”

There was no hesitation. “Yes, I agree.”

“VERY WELL. SO IT SHALL BE.”

The representation of the demon disintegrated in an instant, collapsing back into the marble bowl and leaving nothing but a still, slightly pink pool. The static charge receded and the room returned to normal.

Getting up from the stool, the hooded one walked over to a wooden chest of drawers in which was some salve and a bandage, which would be used to clean and wrap the injured hand.

All there was to do now was wait.

* * *

Stitches gripped the arms of the chair and squeezed his hands so tightly that his skin was in danger of splitting, sending several of his knuckles flying around the cabin. His eyes were clamped shut and his lips were pursed tightly together. His feet were involuntarily flexing up and down, like a drummer hammering the pedals to a pair of bass drums.

“Why did we have to fly? I hate flying. It's not natural. There's no way this much weight should be able to get off the ground.”

Ollie stopped reading his latest copy of The Moon and rested it on his lap.

“Well, I'm sure that if a plane can get a load of Americans into the air, then this one should have no problem. Besides,” he continued, a bit annoyed at having his reading interrupted, “it's the quickest and most convenient way to travel. It was either this or spend five days on the ferry, and I don't think that would have been very pleasant, what with Flug and his seasickness.”

“I would have taken that over this,” responded the zombie, shifting in his seat. “At least on a boat he could go outside and throw up into the water without bothering anyone. If I let rip in this confined space, it'll suddenly seem a hell of a lot smaller.”

Ollie picked up his magazine again and flicked it straight.

“The only thing we'd have to worry about if you let rip would be dust clogging up the air vents. Anyway, I don't know what you're worrying about. Statistically speaking, air travel is by far and away the safest mode of transport.”

Stitches opened one eye which glared at his half vampire colleague.

“You're kidding me, right?”

“No.”

“You do know who the pilot is, don't you?”

“I hadn't read the crew list, no. I'm quite happy in the knowledge that they wouldn't let a total stranger into the cockpit because he felt like giving flying a go.”

“Well be that as it may, I checked. It's Hamish MacHaggis. When he was alive he was the worst pilot ever to have been in the Royal Air Force. The only thing he ever flew successfully was a toy helicopter, and he's on record as being the only pilot ever to have been shot down before getting into his plane.”

“Some kind of aviation expert now, are we?”

“No. I just like to do my research, especially when I know I'm going to be getting on one of these infernal contraptions.”

Once again Ollie put his soon-to-be-out-of-date periodical down, resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to be able to finish reading the 'Vampires. Pillaging, Ancient Mythical Beast or Effeminate, Over-Compensating Closet Homosexual' article.

“Infernal contraptions?” he laughed. “You sound like a pensioner. You'll be telling me next that things were a lot better before all these new fangled changes. I don't know what you're worried about anyway. Everybody on this flight is undead. If anything happens to us, it'll be of entirely no consequence.”

“That's easy for you to say. All you have to do is turn into a flying mouse and flap off into the moonlight, whereas I and poor old Flug here will be scattered over rather a large area. Right, Flug?”

He elbowed his vast travelling companion in the ribs, hoping to elicit some kind of response, but it was a futile gesture. Flug had his headphones on and was caught up in the middle of watching the in-flight movie, a remake of a certain space themed film that probably can't be mentioned due to legal reasons. The film that Flug was watching, however, an affectionate and inspired re-imagining of said unmentionable film, can.

It was called The Vampire Bites Back, an uplifting story in which the handsome hero, Puke Piehorder, at the behest of his tutor, the ancient and sagacious Yodel, travels across the galaxy to face his father, the evil and tyrannical Lord Harsh Trader, in a ferocious final battle bidding to deny his destiny in joining Trader running his very successful second hand spacecraft empire. It was a blockbuster of epic proportions that had won four Lecters at the recent Mortuary Awards. Flug didn't actually have a clue what was going on, of course. It was only during their recent trip that he'd discovered that there weren't little people living in the magic TV box and that you didn't have to stand outside looking up at the heavens to watch Sky Sports. Still, at least it was marginally better than the poor excuse for entertainment they'd had to endure on the outward journey. It was about a Mafia Don who was confined to a wheelchair and when all was said and done it didn't matter how convincing the actor or how grisly the torture scenes as he slaughtered his enemies and took control of his territories, there is nothing in the slightest bit intimidating about a character called 'The Quadfather'.

“Anyway,” Ollie cut in, “you're only in a bad mood because of what happened at the hotel.”

Stitches looked at him with a look of disgust and revulsion on his weathered face.

“Well, wouldn't you be?” he said.

After cracking the difficult, and quite frankly exhausting, case of Jocular's' missing lycanthropes, Ollie had taken some time to sort through some of his Uncle's vast accumulation of paperwork. There was all the usual stuff. Bills for cape cleaning (blood is hell to shift), receipts going back hundreds of years (he found one for a gas powered fang cleaner dated 1756), letters of thanks for work done and some magazine renewal forms (two of which were for publications that Ollie had (a) never heard of and (b) never wanted to hear of. They revelled under the headings of 'Bleeders Wives' and 'Double O Positives, How does all that fit in one cup?' Ollie was sure that his Uncle would only peruse these publications for the articles on the latest hansom cabs, but they went in the bin regardless). There was also the odd invitation or two. One of them was asking old Gorge to attend the Antichristening of his Demigodson, so Ollie replied to that one informing the sender of his late Uncle's demise. The second one was an invitation to attend a conference in London where all of the delegates gathered to hear lectures, join in discussion groups and get involved in workshops doing table top exercises and giving presentations. The whole weekend was organised by the BBC (British Bloodletting Corporation) and the RSPCA (Royal Society for the Preservation of Carnal Acts), two charitable bodies whose sole intent was the advancement of the modern day undead. Ollie had figured that not only would it be a chance to get away for a few days to relax and blow away the cobwebs, which in Stitches' case was the literal truth, because his armpits were a constant problem, but he might get some valuable networking done. Not a bad idea, now that he had a computer with darknet access installed in his office.

Also, being the generous soul that he was, he asked his colleagues, the bounty hunters, if they would like to join them. Sadly though, Mr Singh wouldn't shut the shop for anything less than the destruction of the entire planet (bet your life he would still open on Christmas morning, though) and Dr. Jekyll had gone into hiding after an unfortunate incident with a load of fruit, a farmer's daughter and a song by The Tractors, Eastern Europe's premier agricultural band.

So, what with Ronnie being away and Ethan not fancying it one bit ('well he does look dog tired' was Stitches' response. A response which had earned him a hearty smack to the head that had left him looking backwards for an hour or so) it was just the three of them. Stitches was actually looking forward to it, apart from the flying of course, and Flug had come along simply because he could not be left alone. Or to put it another way, he was too simple to be left alone. The last time that Ollie had allowed the giant reanimate to fend for himself had been about a month ago and chaos on a grand scale had, quite naturally, ensued. The resultant remodelling to the kitchen hadn't taken as long as he'd first thought though, but the remodelling of poor old Hector Lozenge was going to take rather a lot longer. He'd knocked on the office door in his usual drunken state, after forgetting where he lived for probably the ninth time that evening. When Flug opened it and saw the poor man standing in the rain and soaking from head to toe, he had picked him up and done the most natural thing that he could think of. Still, the new tumble dryer was a lot better than the old one, especially as it didn't have clumps of bright red but very dry skin stuck to the inside.

The only proviso for the trip though was that they had to go incognito. A half vampire, an eight foot monster and a slowly disintegrating zombie couldn't very well wander the streets of England's capital city, scaring every man, woman and child that they came across. Unless it was London fashion week of course, in which case they would have fit right in.

The first person they thought of to help them was Professor Crumble, but on reflection the idea was shelved because the chances were that they would be trying to conceal their identities by wearing market stall quality masks of comedy werewolves, and talking in very unconvincing foreign accents. That being the case they went to see Mrs. Ladle. The witch had been more than happy to help of course, and she'd gotten to work straight away preparing a transformation potion that they could take on the flight over. She concocted it in such a way that not only would it mask their true forms, but it also had the added benefit of allowing the taker, and any other undeads, to still see themselves as they truly are. Only those humans looking at them got the effect. The only thing she didn't mention was the fact that she had absolutely no idea what non-undead form they would take. Still, at least it'd be pleasant to drink. She'd added a bit of flavour because she was nice like that. Chocolate. Lovely. And it would nicely mask the taste of the ground troll shavings that was in it, which is always a bonus, because that tasted worse than anything else, ever. Even kebabs.

As they descended, the three of them had knocked back the liquid and it had worked straight away. Ollie took on the appearance of a rather well dressed city gent complete with briefcase, bowler hat, umbrella and smug, self-satisfied expression. Flug became the member of a death metal band sporting long greasy hair, demonic tattoos that covered most of his body, jeans so filthy that a Hell's Angel would have wanted to put them through the wash, and a t-shirt with the band name, OX STOMPER, emblazoned across the front.

Stitches, however, hadn't been so fortunate, and neither Ollie nor Flug had the heart to tell him what he'd become. It wasn't until they walked through the door of the hotel and the zombie bumped into someone only to hear 'Sorry love, my fault' that Ollie enlightened him.

“You know how the Stella girls dress?” he'd said, trying not to laugh.

“Oh my God, yes.”

“You make them look rather understated.”

“Oh no. So I've got to spend the next two days walking around looking like a high class call girl?”

Ollie shrugged and pursed his lips.

“Not so much high class. More like no class.”

“Great.”

“Oh, and do me a favour. Pull your top up, your boobs are falling out.”

After a highly articulate outburst and being asked to watch his/her language or risk getting thrown out, they'd gotten on with the conference.

They'd attended a very informative lecture on 'What not to wear to a summoning' that was presented by a rather flamboyant and extremely well groomed Satanist, who called himself 'The Cloven Poof', before enjoying a workshop on 'Business Relationships. How to end them and where to hide the body'. The only disappointment had been the cancellation of the performance and discussion forum from the GLC (the Goblin Light-theatre Company), after their coach had caught fire on the M4 and they'd all popped.

All in all though, it had been an interesting and productive trip. They'd even managed to get in a bit of sightseeing, but only after they'd convinced Flug that Big Ben was a large bell in a clock-tower, and not a giant monster with four faces and a pointy hat who shouted DONG at unsuspecting passers-by. Stitches, on the other hand, had had three dinner invitations, one proposal of marriage and an offer from a rather unsavoury Eastern European gentleman to 'take him up the back passage in Soho where I have a very interesting selection of bouncy, rubber things'.

The aircraft lurched slightly as it started to descend, causing the nervous zombie to hold onto the armrests even tighter. A light came on in the overhead display showing a buckle and a clip and a voice rattled over the ancient intercom, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to start our descent into the airport. Please extinguish your cigarettes, lanterns, joss sticks, fire imps and dragons and fasten your seatbelts.” (Airport was a bit wide of the mark to be honest, as no doubt the plane would be. It was more an old field, littered with bits and pieces of animals that hadn't gotten out of the way in time. If ever you see a news report where an aircraft has been downed by cow strike, you'll know where it happened).

“Fasten your seatbelts,” muttered Stitches disapprovingly. “What a waste of time that is. If this thing crashes at five hundred miles an hour, I don't think a four foot length of fabric is going to help much. There wouldn't be enough left of me to go in a sick bag.”

“If you don't stop moaning, I'll put you in a Hoover bag when we get home,” said Ollie.

Half an hour later they'd collected their luggage from the seemingly endless carousel, and were queuing up to go through Customs and Exorcise. Stitches followed Ollie and Flug through the barrier.

“Anything to declare?” asked the officious ghoul at the checkpoint.

“Well, those shoes don't go with that shirt for a start, and that tie, where did you, ooof.”

Two hours later and with not one part of his body unprobed, Stitches re-joined the other two.

“You'll never learn, will you?” commented Ollie knowingly, throwing his cases on top of the cab and eliciting help from his colleagues with his coffin. “Always have to be a smart arse.”

“Funny you should say that,” Stitches replied, struggling with the top end of the casket. “My arse is smarting a bit as it goes. Amazing where they think two hundred fags will fit.”

“Good job they didn't check in your mouth then, although I doubt they've got the manpower to search such a vast area, especially without helicopters and sea-going search vessels.”

“Why would you put a fag up your bottom, Stitches?” asked Flug, a look of confusion on his face usually seen on old people trying to understand how a Blu-ray player works and the younger person trying to explain it to them.

“To keep the tobacco dry.”

“Oh, okay.”

They got into the cab and settled in for the journey home, passing a large overhead sign that read 'Thank you for flying on the Astral Plane,' before hitting the dual dust track home.

* * *

“I don't understand it at all,” said the distinguished looking gentleman, shaking his head in puzzlement. “We're always so careful with our security arrangements. In the four hundred years that this museum has been in existence there has never been an incident such as this. Why it shakes me to the very core thinking that some ne'er-do-well has been wandering about the place unfettered and free to do as they please. It's a dreadful situation, not to mention potentially catastrophic.”

A second figure detached itself from the shadows at the back of the room and approached the first.

“What do you mean, Mr. Curator? I'm sorry but I don't see what all the fuss is about, and whilst I don't wish to denigrate what's occurred, I mean a burglary is a burglary after all, it is only a few pages from an old book that have been taken.”

“My apologies, Vortex, but I forgot that ancient mythological history isn't your field. I'll explain it all in good time, but for now I think we need to acquire some aid in determining who perpetrated this heinous act.”

“A fine suggestion, Mr. Curator.”

“Do you have any ideas, Vortex? I wouldn't have the foggiest notion where to begin, and I must say this has left me feeling rather disturbed.”

“Don't you worry. I think I know the very people to contact. Very reliable, so I'm told, and they come highly recommended by Count Jocular no less.”

Mr. Curator brightened somewhat.

“Really? Well, they must be excellent then. It's only the best for His Royal Darkness, don't you know. Can I leave you to make the necessary arrangements? I think I need a lie down.”

Vortex smiled and nodded his head in deference.

“Of course. Leave it to me, I shall contact them at once.”

* * *

When they arrived back at the office, they found that Ronnie had already returned from his sojourn and was now sitting in the kitchen, stirring a pot of tea.

“Ooh, pour us one of those, mate, will you please,” asked Ollie as they all piled in. “I'm gasping. The water in London is absolutely disgusting. It tastes like they've dissolved a used urinal cake in it.”

“Delightful,” said Ronnie. “So, how was the conference?”

“Don't ask,” said Stitches.

“That bad, huh?” said Ronnie, pouring out a cup of hot, steaming Earl Grey.

“Let's just say I'll never have a sex change operation. I couldn't put up with all the male attention.”

“I don't think you'd have to worry too much about that” said Ollie, popping a sweetener into his drink and giving it a stir. “I mean let's face it. It would take a suspension of disbelief of gargantuan proportions, and a potion more powerful than anything that Mrs. Ladle could make, to convince anyone that you were female. Especially an attractive one.”

Stitches looked a bit indignant and more than a tad hurt.

“Tell that to Colonel Totherington Bagshot, VC DFC and Bar. He thought I was pretty hot stuff.”

“That senile old dinosaur thought that Queen Victoria was still on the throne,” said Ollie.

Stitches put his hands on his hips and shot Ollie a look that would have made a Chatham chav proud. “I would have made him very happy actually,” he said.

“An Early Learning Centre Activity set and someone to talc his saggy backside would've made him happy.”

“Ah well, that's me,” Stitches said with a haughty air, doing his best not to look thoroughly dejected. “Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.”

“Bride of Frankenstein, maybe,” Ronnie added with a sarcastic flourish. He lit the cigarette that was clinging to his lips, puffed on it and sent a vast plume towards the ceiling. “Anyway,” he added, “just what on earth are you two banging on about? Sounds like you've been on a stag do in Amsterdam rather than London.”

Ollie grinned. “We'll tell you about it sometime. How were your days off?”

Ronnie drained the dregs from his cup and set it back down on the table.

“Yeah, pretty good. I met up with a couple of mates in Humerus, did a bit of sightseeing and then went to that new nightclub, HG's.”

“Very nice,” said Stitches. “That's supposed to be rather upmarket, isn't it?”

“Well, they do say that if you're invisible, it's the place to be seen.”

“My, that is exclusive! Was it any good?” asked Ollie, swallowing another mouthful of tea.

“Yeah it was okay, although I don't think invisible strippers are going to catch on. I know that leaving something to the imagination is said to be alluring, but not everything. And besides that, you don't know what you're tucking your money into. It could have been the seam of some old hag's surgical stocking for all I know.”

Stitches experienced an involuntary shudder as some more than disturbing images flashed through his mind. It would have been worse if he could have actually seen them.

“Where, Ethan?” asked Flug, joining in the conversation, late as always but with his usual casual grace and Oscar Wilde type repartee. “He help me go poo.”

“Upstairs in the office,” Ronnie said after a double take. “He needs to see you actually, Ollie. There's been a few calls while you were away.”

Ollie finished his tea, rinsed the cup out and put it on the draining board. “Oh, right. Let's go and see then, shall we?”

He found Ethan sitting behind his desk. The phone was cradled between his shoulder and his ear. He was in the middle of a conversation and was writing notes.

“No problem, Mr. Vortex. I'm sure we can help you. As soon as Mr. Splint returns from his trip, I'll be sure to let him know at once. Thank you. Bye now.”

“Anything interesting?” asked Ollie, parking himself in Stitches' usual chair, waving at Ethan to stay seated.

“Could be. There's been a break in at the Fibulan museum. That was the Curator's assistant, Vortex. He didn't say too much, but they'd like us to go over and see what we think.”

“Excellent,” said Ollie beaming, “we'll attend shortly. Anything else?”

Ethan leafed through several ghost-it notes.

“Uh, nothing really pressing, apart from Professor Crumble blowing up a pig and having to get the cleaners in, and Constable Gullet having to arrest a joy rider who landed on the roof the other night. Usual thing, nicked a broom, under age, no insurance.”

“Any damage?”

“A few dented bristles, a couple of loose tiles and the same for three of the young chaps' teeth. The little fellah responsible will be up in front of the Magic State Court in the next couple of days.”

“Good,” said Ollie. “Hopefully they'll throw the spell book at him.”

Having the spell book thrown at you was as literal as it sounded. The guilty party, whilst stood in the dock, had a large, black, leather bound tome hurled at them by the prosecuting counsellor. Whichever page the book opened at, after bouncing off said naughty person, was their allotted punishment. This could cover a vast spectrum of penalties ranging from a couple of centuries interred in a marble statue or, as in one very unfortunate case of being caught haunting without a license, the perpetrator spent the whole of August as a youth group leader at an outward bound centre in North Wales. He was still undergoing therapy. Justice in Skullenia is harsh.

“Right,” said Ollie, clapping his hands enthusiastically, “let's have the address of the museum and we'll find out what's going on.”

* * *

The Fibulan museum was a vast stone-built structure nestled at the top of a hill at the end of Digitalis Avenue in Fibular. In the four hundred years of its existence it had amassed supernatural relics and mythological artefacts beyond number and had become known far and wide as a repository for such. For instance, they had on display the fabled Apron of Vomitoria, an item of kitchen apparel that made everything the wearer cooked taste like a Pot Noodle. They also had the hallowed Christmas Lights of Forever, which you were able to switch on for up to ten minutes at a time without one of the green bulbs blowing.

After the cab pulled up outside, Ollie got out and tipped the driver a few pence. Stitches would have tipped him about his cleanliness, but seeing as he was rather a large phantasm who looked like he could pull the top off a steam train, he thought better of it. He liked his body the way it was arranged, thank you very much.

“Impressive,” commented the zombie, craning his neck back to take in the massive grey edifice. “You ever been here before?”

“Only the once,” Ollie replied, shaking his head and wincing at the memory it conjured up. “Dad brought me here when I was about eight. He thought it would be educational for me to go on the Horror of Terrors Horribly Terrible Tour.”

“And was it?”

“It taught me how to hide a wee stain if that's any indication. It took me ages to get over the experience. I had daymares for weeks afterwards.”

Ollie lifted the oversized brass knocker and slammed it home. BOOM. BOOM.

A lock slid across and the immense oak door was opened from within.

“Ah, you must be the gentlemen from the agency. Do come in, please. I'm the Curator's assistant, Vortex. Please allow me to show you the way.”

“Thank you very much. I'm Ollie Splint, and this is Stitches.”

After seeing them into the building, Vortex closed the door and beckoned them on.

“You might be interested to know, Mr. Stitches, that we have quite an extensive reanimation section on the fourth floor. Some of our zombies date back well over six hundred years. Of course it's only their clothes, a lot of sellotape and a daily spoonful of wishful thinking holding them together these days, but they're still fascinating nonetheless. How old are you, may I ask? You seem to be in remarkable condition, if I may be permitted the observation.”

Stitches edged ever so slightly to his left, putting Ollie squarely between himself and the assistant. Vortex, although not a large man by any means, had a certain presence about him that made you take notice. He was of average build, average height, average appearance and, if you checked criminal history, looked like the average serial killer. The only really striking aspect about him were his eyes. They were a bright sky blue, but a sky that had been lightly sprinkled with diamond dust. They actually twinkled as they moved. It was quite attractive in a non-sexual, non-gender specific and non-judgemental about lifestyle choices way, and at the same time a little disconcerting. It felt like no matter in which direction he was facing, he would always be watching you.

“I'm just over two hundred, if you must know, and I do keep myself in good nick, thank you very much,” Stitches replied, a little more forcefully than was probably necessary, “so don't go making room for me on one of your shelves just yet.”

“Oh no, perish the thought, dear boy. Here we are.”

Vortex showed them into an exhibit room. It was about fifteen feet square and moodily lit, the sort of place where you'd expect to be ruthlessly interrogated to reveal your deepest, darkest secrets, or at the very least asked, 'have you been actively seeking work this last week?'

Uneven slate tiles covered the floor, and the walls looked as if molten lava were flowing down them.

“Amazing what you can do with a bit of artex these days,” observed Stitches.

In the centre of the room stood a five foot high plinth, on top of which was a glass cabinet. Inside this, on a small golden lectern, was a red, leather bound book that was closed. On top of the glass case was an arm. Attached to that arm was a tall, thin, kindly looking man with a long white beard and friendly, inviting features. He was dressed in a tweed suit and Hush Puppies, and looked like he would have been right at home either teaching A Level Geography in a Polytechnic, or advanced algebra at three in the morning on BBC2. He approached the two visitors and greeted them warmly, shaking each by the hand. As he spoke though, they could detect a note in his voice, a faint but distinct tremble that told them he was worried about something, and that all was not well.

“Gentlemen, I am Ignacious Starch, curator of the museum. Thank you for coming so quickly. I hope I haven't put you to any trouble.”

“None at all,” said Ollie pleasantly, trying to put the old boy at ease. “What can we do for you?”

“Well, if I may be permitted to give you a bit of a history lesson, our dilemma should become clearer. This book,” he pointed towards the glass case with a shaky hand, “is the Compendium de Magicus Totallus. Basically, gentlemen, it contains within its pages every magic spell, incantation, cantrip, conjuration, charm, jinx and hex known to exist.”

“Quite the book of tricks then,” said Stitches, wondering where this was going.

“Well indeed. Now, nearly every spell contained within it has been deciphered and used at some point throughout history. However, there is a section at the back that contains a language that has never been translated. Try as we might, we have failed each and every time. Some of the most eminent people in this field and others have attempted it, but to no avail. No one seems to be able to make any sense of it at all. All we do know is that there are five pages of said text, and on the reverse of each there is what appears to be a map, but again, the wording on the diagram is in the same unintelligible code.”

“That's all very interesting,” said Ollie questioningly, “but what exactly seems to be the problem? ATCHOO! Bless me.”

The curator looked downcast, his voice quiet.

“The pages in question have been stolen.”

“Oh, I see. ATCHOO! I'm ever so sorry; I must have a cold coming, unless it's the dust.”

“Well, don't look at me,” protested Stitches. “I'm all sewn up nice and tight and gave myself a rigorous hovering last night.”

To emphasize the point he slapped himself on the chest, which to Ollie's everlasting disappointment produced nothing except a low, hollow thud.

MEOW. ATCHOO. ATCHOO. MEOW.

Ollie felt a soft, sinuous and very furry body slinking round his legs.

“I can't understand why, but it would seem that your cat is setting me off,” Ollie said, desperately trying to stem the glutinous flow from his dripping nose.

“Ah, Carter has joined us. My apologies, Mr. Splint. I had no idea he'd snuck in. Vortex, would you please see him out?”

The assistant opened the display room door and ushered the feline out, whilst Ollie blew his nose explosively and tried to equalise the pressure in his cranium by making goldfish faces.

“Right,” he said, suitably de-snotted, “where were we? Ah yes, the missing pages.”

“Yes indeed,” continued the curator. “And we need to get them back before, well, who knows what could happen.”