Wherewolf E-Book

Tony Lewis

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Half-vampire Ollie inherits his uncle's detective agency in the undead town of Skullenia.

With the agency comes his uncle's staff: a zombie who can barely hold himself together, a zombie the size of a phonebox and with a single digit IQ, a mad professor, and Ronnie - who has the ability to make himself invisible.

Skullenia seems to be the last place that would need a detective agency. At least that is what Ollie thinks, until Count Jocular commissions him to help resolve a series of unexplained disappearances.

But has Ollie bitten off more than he can chew? With the help of his motley crew and some quite frankly ridiculous characters, he attempts to solve this perplexing mystery.

Leseprobe

Wherewolf

Skullenia Book 1

Tony Lewis

Copyright (C) 2016 Tony Lewis

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 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.

For James Maybe you'll read this book Love, Dad

Wherewolf

The woods were as silent and still as a fresh corpse with only the faint rustling of small woodland creatures and the predators hunting them registering any sound at all as they waged their nocturnal battles.

Majestic in its frigidity, the moon was full and high in the ebony sky, but the dense foliage of the lofty, ancient trees was enough to ensure that only a meagre amount of its light filtered through to illuminate the loamy forest floor below.

It was then that an almost imperceptible footfall disturbed the pristine calm, and a quiet whisper floated across the gloomy air.

“Do we have to do this now?”

“Well, when else do you suggest we do it? You could try coming out at lunchtime I suppose but I don't think you'll find many werewolves strolling about trying to work on their tan.”

“Okay, fine, but just remember what happened to the last two chaps who got this job.”

“And what would that be?”

“Coming out here totally unprepared without having done any research. They even brought silver bullets, for goodness sake, and everyone knows they don't work.”

“Well, don't keep me in suspense by blathering on all night. What happened to them?”

“One was never found, and all they found of the other one was his hat.”

“And?”

“His head was still in it!”

“So, on the strength of that, you're just presuming that he was eaten by a wolf,” came the sarcastic reply.

“Well, what else could have done that out here? A Boy Scout gone postal? Finally tied one too many reef knots and completely unravelled?”

“Maybe Cowan got fed up with his constant whining and cut his head off to shut him up.”

“Don't wind me up, I'm nervous enough as it is.”

“I didn't know you were afraid of the dark.”

“It's not the dark that bothers me. It's what's hiding in it that gives me the willies. Especially out here.”

A quiet snort impinged upon the funereal hush.

“Look, there's really nothing to worry about. You know I've brought along everything we need. I've got Wolf's Bane, chains and padlocks, a dog whistle…”

“Yeah, and half a sheep festering away in that bag. I can smell it from here, it's disgusting. It's so strong there's more chance of us getting attacked by a shark. Look, even the maggots are running away.”

“I didn't know maggots could run.”

“Shut up.”

“I really don't know why you came out here, Alf,” said the first figure, dropping the meat laden sack to the ground where it landed with a glutinous squelch. “All you've done is moan and jump at your own shadow.”

“It's too dark for a shadow. It's like being down the bottom of a bloody well.”

“Look all…”

“Sssshhhh.”

“What?”

A hushed, almost indiscernible noise had punctured the abyssal silence. In reality it was no louder than a freshly laundered towel caressing a baby's cheek, but it resounded like a gunshot because the forest was so still.

Both men reacted instantly, hunching over, straining their ears for all they were worth, trying not only to figure out what they had heard but where it had come from, and from what.

Alf was now way beyond his initial fears about the venture. He'd arrived at St. Panic Station and was on the verge of becoming a full blown gibbering wreck. He wanted to flee but his feet were glued to the floor, his knees were trembling, and his bowels were quickly turning to water.

“Hey!” he whispered, “what is it?”

“I don't know for sure,” replied his companion, “but I think it might be behind us.”

Whatever it was emitted a rich, bass growl that the two men felt way down deep in their chests.

“We're in trouble.”

The snarl grew louder and more menacing.

“We're definitely in tro…”

All Alf saw was a large, vague shape launch itself at his friend's back, and when it hit a second later, it had enough force to carry him to the forest floor. He felt a chilled rush of air sweep past his cheek and detected the unmistakable odour of damp dog.

His stricken partner screamed once and was then silenced, his cry replaced by a sickeningly liquid crunch. Alf gazed in fascinated horror as a head the size of a horse's turned towards him and two intense red eyes fixed him with a wicked glare. Thick dark fluid dripped from teeth the length of an index finger as the creatures' breath formed a miasmal cloud before it. An instant later the massive beast launched itself at the now lone hunter, hell bent on rending him to shredded chunks so that it could continue its grizzly feast.

Alf reacted instinctively, his adrenal gland pumping for all it was worth in order to fuel his taught muscles, and before he was consciously aware of what he was doing, he was turning to flee.

Sadly though, his instantaneous attempt at flight was brought to a sudden and dramatic halt. As his right foot pivoted, the toe of his boot caught on something wooden and, even though every fibre and sinew in his body fought to keep him upright, he lost his balance and crashed heavily to the leaf strewn forest floor. Time seemed to slow and as he fell, he turned his head. The werewolf was nearly on him. It was in full flight, all four legs off the ground, slavering jaws wide open and ready to strike. Realising that without further action he was about to be torn to pieces, Alf brought his left arm round, intent on finding purchase in an effort to spur him to his feet and away from what was going to be the most certain of certain deaths. His grasping fingers, however, did not hit the soil. They touched and unconsciously closed around a piece of frigid wood that was much too uniform to be a part of any tree.

With time now seemingly at a stand still, he brought the object closer to him. At the very least he could make use of it as a club. Then, with a flash of intense relief that actually made him shudder, Alf realised it was the high powered rifle that he and his recently deceased acquaintance had brought with them.

The wolf was now close enough that he could see the small red capillaries in its eyes and smell its foetid, meaty breath. Without a second thought, Alf brought the barrel of the weapon to bear on the creature and pulled the trigger, sending a hollow point bullet straight at it. He didn't see where the bullet penetrated, but the sudden silence and the fact that he wasn't being torn limb from flailing limb told him all that he needed to know. He collapsed back onto the forest floor and let out the breath that he'd been holding for what had seemed like an eternity.

“Never again,” he muttered to himself.

* * *

“Dinner time, Ollie!”

“Oh, good grief, do I have to?”

“I fink you do yes, uverwise you put your, umm, immortal soul in, drier, uh dire peril, decci, dicec, mess up your very flush and, um, bones, and den 'ave to spend all 'ternity wandring about da efereal neverworld.”

Ollie Splint closed his eyes and sighed, trying to push the thought of dinner from his mind. Actually, and by way of introduction (never let it be said that us authors are rude types) it might help you to know that Ollie was a vampire. Well, he was half vampire anyway. His father, Glut the Bodyripper, was a most infamous bloodsucker and was renowned throughout the undead world as one of the most gruesome and malevolent creatures ever to don the black cape and pointy fangs. His mother, however, wasn't such a denizen of the dark, occupier of the otherworld or inhabitant of any evil environs of any description whatsoever. Her name was Sharon Goldsmith and she was, to this day, an assistant in a small library in Cardiff (she worked in the Welsh language section so spent most of her time wiping phlegm off the books and telling English tourists that 'heaty hottio' didn't mean microwave oven).

His father had met her during one of his many night time hunting expeditions (or to put it another way, he was out to kill as many living things as possible before the sun came up and turned him into a Cornish Pasty).

Sharon, on the other hand, being slightly more academically inclined and not really that interested in slaughter on a scale not seen since the Spanish Flu epidemic, had been on a college gap year and was hiking through Eastern Europe to broaden her mind and expand on her life experience.

As was traditional (and who am I to tamper with that) they'd met in a secluded, pseudo medieval village that was populated by dribbling simpletons, world class idiots and a mad woman who spent her days wandering about yelling 'WHOOOOO!” at passers by. You know the sort of place don't you? If not, imagine Southend but just a tad friendlier and with a higher collective IQ.

Anyway, their meeting had been something of a revelation to them both. In all his centuries of existence Glut had never been so affected by a human female (in that he didn't have the urge to tear her throat out and drink her blood. Well, he did for a bit but then he wouldn't have been a proper vampire if he didn't would he), and as impossible as it may seem, he'd actually fallen in love with the demure Welsh lass.

And so, stricken as he was by Cupids fateful arrow, he realised that if he wanted to forge any sort of meaningful relationship with Sharon he needed to be truthful with her, so he took a risk and told her about his, how shall we put it, colourfully alternative lifestyle. Surprisingly she took it all on board without batting an eyelid and dealt with the vampires surreal tale in an amazingly level headed fashion because, if the truth be known, she was as smitten with the giant blood sucker as he was with her. They'd never married of course, because vampires simply don't do that by tradition, and what with traditions being somewhat traditional, and vampires being very traditional in their keeping of traditions there was no way that Glut could break that particular tradition because it was so traditional, and as you can imagine there are certain traditions that simply can't be trifled with. She had, however, been afforded the greatest honour that a male vampire can bestow upon a human female. He'd chosen her to bear his child and since then they'd enjoyed a very happy romance thank you very much. Even to this day he still visited with her several times a year (it's in all the papers whenever he does. Well, almost. The last headline was 'Another 34 unexplained deaths in Wales' capital city.' No doubt they'll figure it out one day but by then there'll be no one left except Sharon, that statue of Sir Gareth Edwards and the bloke who polishes the Millennium Stadium).

So Ollie, thanks to his mixed parentage, had been blessed with some very distinct and somewhat odd character traits. He could mesmerise anyone he liked (as long as they had the brain of an over the hill heavyweight boxer and the IQ of a boiled turnip that is), he needed to avoid direct sunlight, but could go out in it if he wrapped up like an Eskimo who really hated the cold, he slept in a coffin the size of a piano crate and, for some strange reason, he could make his left foot invisible. On a good night, if he'd had plenty of sleep and concentrated really hard, he could turn himself into a decently sized bat. Well, he'd managed it once, but had gotten fed up with the entire process and vowed never to do it again after spending three hours hanging upside down from a branch, passing water all over his own face, passing out and falling to the floor. And trying to shave when you didn't have a reflection was a constant pain in the chin.

On the flip side of all these black, vaguely evil and some might say, outrageously nefarious talents (and let's face it, it's nice to have some balance. It doesn't pay to be completely rotten all the time does it, not unless you're a serial killer, an evil dictator or an estate agent anyway), he was fond of a cup of Earl Grey tea (decaffeinated of course. Vampires can be stroppy enough even when they've had a good day's sleep), Marmite sandwiches with the crusts cut off, a nice drop of wine and a good cry at anything remotely sentimental.

His heritage was also the reason for his rather peculiar moniker (not the one from Friends. She was just weird). In true vampire tradition where the male's title was meant to be something as vile as possible, his given name was actually Gore the Spinesplitter, but once he'd reached an age where these things mattered, he'd decided that it would be next to impossible trying to go through eternity with such a ghastly title, especially after he'd tried booking a meal in a restaurant one evening. He'd barely finished getting his name out when the maître d' gave him a rather peculiar look, went deathly pale and asked him to leave otherwise he'd call the authorities. Obviously a squad of policemen wouldn't have posed the young vampire any problems at all, but it wasn't quite how he'd planned the evening to go, and having to kill several officers of the law would probably have put him off his trifle.

Ollie did, however, love his old Dad, so as a sign of respect rather than changing his name completely, he'd contracted it to the reasonably more user friendly Splint. Ollie was the name of a pet cat that he'd had as a boy. A cat that had mysteriously disappeared one weekend when his cousin, Grind the Felinekiller, aged nine and a half, had come for a sleepover.

The main bugbear in Ollie's life though, was a total and utter loathing of the sight, smell, taste, feel and look of blood. It made him shudder every time he thought about the revolting liquid, which was twice a day in fact, a pint at a time. And as you can imagine it was no fun being a creature of the night when blood-letting and everything else related to the vile substance made you retch. The twice yearly meeting of the Vampire Union, V.L.A.D (Vampires Love a Drop) was a complete nightmare from beginning to end. The other members, happily throwing gallons of AB negative down their necks, would quite happily pull his fangs out if they discovered he'd smuggled in a couple of bottles of strawberry flavoured Ribena. And the buffet, well, that was beyond words (it was putrid, nauseating, horrific, nasty, noisome and downright yucky. There you go, not quite as beyond words as I thought. Hurrah for a bit of hyperbole, overstatement, exaggeration, over-embellishment and the like).

As Flug placed the tray on Ollie's desk and backed off slightly, Ollie thought about what Flug had just said. It sounded wooden and stilted, almost rehearsed. He could never have come up with anything like that on his own.

“Have you been looking at the pretty pictures in your vampire comics again, Flug?”

“Yeah. Me like da hunters. Dey cool,” he rumbled.

“I'm sure they are.”

“And good cooks.”

“Cooks?” asked Ollie.

“Dey do good stuff wiv steaks, me like steaks.”

Ollie gazed despondently at the hulk before him.

“S-T-A-K-E-S. Not S-T-E-A-K-S, you bonehead,” said Ollie breaking down and spelling the words as if he were addressing a particularly stupid child, or an adult from Chatham. He chose to gloss over the fact that Flugs apparent hero spent the majority of his time nailing vampires to the floor, yanking out their teeth for souvenirs and, to top it all off, hammering bits of wood into their chests, which, if nothing else, was rather unhygienic quite frankly. And what if you got a splinter? You could end up with a really nasty infection.

A dry, rasping laugh came from a shadowy figure lurking in the doorway.

“It's no good spelling it out, Ollie mate. You know he has trouble stringing sentences together. And understanding them for that matter, let alone a whole word.”

“He'd have trouble stringing two beads together. So, what can I do for you?”

Phillip “Stitches” Meeup ambled over towards Ollie's desk. He had a rolling, lopsided gait and a dusty, grey, sort of thrown together look about him, which he virtually was if the truth be known. In the one hundred and sixty years since his reanimation, wear and tear had taken its toll on the zombie's joints, muscles and tissues and trying to turn the clock back was an ongoing battle that he would never win. Parts of him were forever falling off and no amount of cod liver oil, skin cream or WD40 was going to keep the extreme ageing process at bay. He carried around a small sewing kit at all times in case of any mishaps, hence his apt, if not very imaginative, nickname (but let's face it, is there any such thing as an imaginative nickname? Um…no. If your names Jones, it's Jonesy. Smith…Smiffy etc. If you're a tad large, it's Tiny and if you're tall it's Shorty. The most popular of course is reserved for contestants on Celebrity Big Brother. Every one of them is known as Who the hell is that?)

Stitches sat in an old, leather chair facing Ollie.

“I was just wondering if we've had any work come in. Shouldn't you be drinking that, by the way? You don't want it to clot,” he said, pointing to the blood filled tankard.

Ollie grimaced and reached for the revolting refreshment.

“Thank you sooooo much for reminding me,” he growled.

Stitches sat back in his chair and crossed his legs, eliciting a loud crack and a worrying puff of dust.

“No problem, sunshine. You know me, always glad to help,” he said.

Ollie paused with the tankard a few inches from his mouth.

“How many times have I told you it's not funny to call a vampire sunshine?”

“Makes me laugh,” said Stitches, sporting a cheeky smirk.

“That's no guarantee of comedic quality. Excuse me.”

Ollie clamped his eyes shut and pinched his nose before taking a deep breath, dry swallowing, sniffing loudly, clearing his throat, sniffing again and, if it were possible, pinching his nose even tighter, before drinking the warm liquid straight down.

“Yuck,” choked Ollie, as he slammed the empty tankard back down, sending microscopic droplets of blood onto the wooden surface of his desk in the process, a mess that he wouldn't notice until he tried to pick up a sheet of sticky paper. He belched massively and what felt like half a strapping six footers lifeblood bubbled up into his throat. It wasn't pleasant.

“Wot matter, Ollie. You no like?” inquired Flug, a look of concern on his face (or it could have been wind. Flug's facial expressions could be a little bit hard to determine what with him having the appearance of a haphazardly sewn together car crash, so how he was feeling was a matter of guess work most of the time. To keep things simple it was best to assume that Flug was confused. You'd usually be right).

“No, it was bloody awful,” offered Stitches.

Ollie wiped his mouth with a silk hanky then threw it in the bin. It could have been washed in sulphuric acid and hung out to dry on the sun and he wouldn't have used it again.

“I'm sorry, Flug. I still don't like it,” he said. “Do me a favour will you and get rid of that rancid thing.” Ollie gestured towards the empty tankard.

“Okay, Ollie,” replied Flug. He picked up the empty vessel and thudded out of the office.

Stitches sniggered once the befuddled behemoth had departed.

“Of all the luck,” he said.

“What do you mean?” said Ollie.

“Well, most monsters you come across are made by a disturbed genius or a mad scientist aren't they? Or at the very least a biology student with a grudge, but not our Flug.”

“True, true,” replied Ollie, shuffling some papers in the vain hope of looking efficient. Some very sticky papers. “You wouldn't think an accountant would have that much spare time would you. And come on, bolts through the neck. Yes, we all expect that, but one through the forehead? Methinks someone came bottom in monster building class.”

“He can pick up radio on that thing, you know,” said the zombie.

“Really!”

“Yeah. On a clear night with no wind, face him north on the roof, clip an aerial to his bolt and drop his trousers, the shipping forecast comes out lovely.”

Ollie frowned.

“Seems like a lot of hassle to go to just to listen to boat news. And why drop his trousers, does that help with the reception?”

“I'm not sure,” pondered Stitches, “but the first time we did it they fell down, so I suppose it's become a sort of tradition.”

“Traditions,” said Ollie, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice so heavy that it needed to go on a diet, “are time honoured practices, passed down through the ages that take on revered significance. Pulling down poor Flug's trousers on the roof does not come under that particular umbrella I'm afraid. So, how often do you perform this ancient and hallowed rite then?”

“We started last Friday.”

“How noble, how holy. This has the potential to become legendary, you know.”

Stitches lowered his gaze and concentrated on his lap.

“Just a bit of fun is all,” he murmured.

“Just one more thing”, Ollie continued. “Why the shipping forecast? We live two hundred miles from the coast.”

“It's all we can pick up apart from Radio Moscow. We tried to get The Postmortem Review but the reception was terrible.”

Ollie rubbed a hand over his face and let out a sigh. 'I'm losing the will to unlive' he thought.

“Changing the subject ever so slightly,” he said, “where's Ronnie?”

“I haven't seen him,” said Stitches.

Ollie shook his head. “Do you know, if I had a penny for every time that joke about him being invisible was funny I'd have precisely no pennies. I meant do you know where he is?”

“Nope.”

Ollie got up from behind his desk and walked around in front of it, to stretch his legs.

“What was it you came in here for anyway?” he said. “It seems like decades ago.”

Stitches stuck a finger in his ear and waggled it about to try and dislodge an errant particle of dust that was annoying him.

“Oh, yeah. I was just wondering if we'd had any work come in.”

“Not at the mome… uhh, your finger.”

“What about it?”

“You need to take it out of your head. It looks like you're either growing a tusk or you're one of those sad acts who can't go five steps outside their house without attaching an antenna to their skull in case they miss a really important phone call.”

Stitches reached up with his now four fingered hand and retrieved his disembodied digit.

“I thought it'd gone quiet,” he said, getting his sewing kit from an inside pocket.

Legs suitably exercised, Ollie returned to his chair.

“Anyway, as I was saying, no. We don't have any work at the moment.”

“What, none at all? Not even a sniff?” asked the zombie, dexterously threading a needle, or as dextrously as he could anyway. It wasn't easy when you had fingers like dessicated carrots.

“Nope, I'm afraid not so we'll have to continue basking in the glory of solving the cryptic and enigmatic Case of The Cracked Mirror. Remember that?”

“How could I forget?” said Stitches. “A fiendish, nay heinous crime involving irreparable damage to the mirror in the upstairs bathroom.”

“Indeed,” agreed Ollie.

“The mirror that Flug head-butted because he thought someone was staring at him?”

Ollie nodded. “The very same.”

“Mind you, a broken mirror and a screaming monster with a three inch shard of glass in his face didn't take much working out did it? Even Constable Gullett could have gotten to the bottom of that one.”

Ollie didn't respond as he was lost in thought. He was mulling over the decision to take over his uncles' detective agency. Not that he'd had much choice in the matter of course. It was stated in the will of his dad's brother, Gorge The Corpsegrinder (1376-2015), that Ollie should head the business for a period of no less than six months, with the option to stay on for longer if he fancied it. Yeah right. As if that was going to happen. If he was honest he couldn't wait to get out of this godforsaken place and then have a little chat with his dad about his less than subtle interference in his sons life choices. Ollie was convinced that the old boy had had a taloned hand in the affair.

His Uncle Gorge had lived and worked his whole life in Skullenia and its strange surroundings (population: some living, some dead, most undead, and the rest, who knew? It was a rather drab and dreary place that had once ranked eleventh in top ten list of 'Places I would rather go on holiday if Iraq was fully booked'. It was nearly twinned with Chernobyl at one point but the Russian town had withdrawn from the agreement because their council leaders had felt that its image would have been irreparably tarnished, and it was also the only place on record that Kentucky Fried Chicken had refused to open a branch in. McDonald's had tried, but the Skullenians had said no), so apparently there was no better place for Ollie to spend some time than in the birthplace of his family and immersed in their unholy practices and traditions.

The decision had probably been made after Glut realised that his son wasn't the body ripping, blood drinking, heart devouring fiend that he himself was. And let's face it, you always want the best for your kids. Ollie's reticence had, to say the least, left Glut a tad miffed, and when he found out that Ollie had developed a passing interest in astronomy and wanted to go to night school, he'd almost burst.

“No offspring of mine is going to spend his evenings gazing up at the sky comet watching,” Glut had spat whilst looming over his son from his full height of seven feet four. “The only heavenly bodies you should be concerning yourself with are the ones that you're about to sink your teeth into.”

“But, dad…”

“Don't interrupt me when I'm speaking, boy,” Glut had snarled, his piercing eyes seeming to bore into Ollie's soul with a look that could stop a heartbeat in an instant. “It's unseemly for you act like a normal person. You'll be telling me you want to buy some designer trainers and get a job in WH Smith next. You're a vampire for heavens sake.”

“Half vampire.”

“Well, you're mostly vampire.”

“Mum's human and you fell for her, or had you forgotten that little detail?.”

“No, I hadn't forgotten that, but it doesn't mean you have to become slave to a few inferior genes wandering about your system.”

“Perhaps you should have called me Wrangler then.”

“Don't be flippant. It doesn't suit you. The fact is that you have many of the qualities associated with the Wamphyri that you can't escape from and I want you to start acting like it. Your heritage spans thousands of years and I won't have it sullied because you've developed a bit of a conscience. Now, go to your cellar and think about what I've said.”

“Dad.”

“What now.”

“I'm twenty seven.”

“Bugger.”

So all the evidence said to him that Glut had pushed Gorge into putting the caveat in his will, forcing him to spend some time in Skullenia.

But what Ollie still failed to understand was how running a hugely unsuccessful detective agency would give him an insight into the life of a vampire. All he'd learned so far was how to get incredibly bored. He didn't go out much at night because it was terrifying, and according to Stitches the chances of him finding a virgin to sink his teeth into in this neck of the woods were virtually nil. There was Fragrant Fiona of course, but she was about as attractive as a Rottweiler in a tutu, only with a worse temper and more teeth. And as her name suggested, she smelled so bad that the woodland scavengers regularly bypassed the local rubbish dump and headed straight for her.

All in all, the next few months were looking pretty grim.

* * *

The assembled gathering numbered about a dozen. Males and females ranging in age from early twenties to mid-fifties sat on various chairs, sofas and the floor. Despite the disparity in their ages though they were all magnificent specimens, each and every one of them in tremendous physical condition. The only person standing was a female who was pacing the floor.

“Has he returned yet?” she asked.

“No, he hasn't,” came the reply from one of the males who had just entered the room, “and he should have been back well before now. I hate to say it but I think…”

“I know,” the female responded, a pensive edge colouring her words. “So what do we do now? Suggestions anyone?”

A chorus of voices rang out, ideas and thoughts flowing from the concerned group.

“Let's get together and find out for ourselves what's going on,” said one.

“They'll come back eventually, let's wait and see what happens,” said another.

“I'm for trying to find them right now,” said someone else.

The lady stopped her pacing and stood in the midst of the group. She folded her arms but raised a hand to her mouth, an index finger gently tapping on her cheek as she considered what she'd heard.

“I can appreciate what you're all saying,” she said, “but I think the best course of action would be to let the Master know. As capable as we are he's going to be in the best position to get to the bottom of it.”

Though slightly muted and not entirely enthusiastic, murmurs of begrudging agreement issued forth from the other members.

“Right,” she announced, detecting their reticence. “Whilst I can understand your willingness to plunge in feet first, the last thing I want is for all of us to go charging round the forest like headless demons stirring up a lot of trouble and putting ourselves at further risk. And besides, if the Master found out that this had been kept from him I think you'll agree that he'd be more than a little annoyed, and people going missing would be the least of our concerns.”

“Who's going to tell him?” someone asked.

“I'll do it,” said Obsidia, facing the group once more. “But in person. This isn't the sort of news to be passed on via a message. I'll leave now.”

* * *

Stitches shuffled out of Ollie's office and made his way along the hallway to the kitchen. He wasn't hungry or thirsty but he needed to drink some water every now and again to keep his dusty innards lubricated. He'd tried three in one oil but it had just sunk to his feet and leaked out. He found Flug sitting on a chair staring intently at a bottle of washing up liquid over by the sink.

“What you doing, mate?” he asked, getting himself a glass.

“Sssshhhh,” muttered Flug.

“Why, what's going on?”

“Don't bovver me.”

“Why?”

Flug wouldn't take his eyes off the bottle. “You make me miss it.”

“WHAT?”

“Me watchin' my faverit soap like Mrs. Ladle do.”

Stitches burst out laughing and dropped the glass to the floor, smashing it to pieces and making Flug jump.

As he wasn't the most intelligent of beings, a lot of what Flug did was accomplished by learned behaviour, the way children do when they watch their parents. The problem was, Flug wasn't as clever as your average toddler and also tended to be a bit more literal than was good for his health. For those very reasons he needed to be kept an eye on when he was in 'learning mode'. Or, to put it another way, locked in his bedroom until the moment had passed and he was safe to rejoin society. Ollie had discovered this not long after his arrival in Skullenia when he found the giant reanimate in his office, using his desk as a make shift bonfire and eating a hot buttered shoe because he'd watched Ronnie make some toast.

“You total doughnut,” gasped the zombie, very much in danger of literally laughing his head off. It had happened before. He considered pointing out the tiny misunderstanding to his friend but decided against it. There was no point whatsoever in trying to explain much of anything to a creature with the intellectual capacity of a brontosaurus with severe learning difficulties.

Stitches went to get a broom when Flug let out a gasp. The bottle that he'd been watching levitated off the side and hovered a foot in the air gently swaying to and fro. Flug stared goggle eyed at the floating object and watched in horror as it moved slowly towards him.

“Wot goin' on, Stitches?” he whimpered in a voice far too high for a creature that could knock down a semi-detached house with one punch. Stitches clapped a hand over his mouth, attempting to stifle the giggle that was trying to escape.

“Me scared. ME SCARED!” wailed Flug.

The plastic bottle was now positioned directly over Flug's head. He looked upwards, the terror evident on his face, but he was unable to look away. Then, with a resounding THWACK, the object suddenly lost its aeronautical ability and fell onto Flug's forehead.

“Ow!” he said, rubbing the sore spot as Stitches slapped him on the shoulder.

“You fall for it every time, don't you, matey?” he said sympathetically.

“Wot?”

“Show him, Ron.”

The air in the kitchen began to writhe and undulate, as if the temperature and humidity had suddenly increased, and a high pitched whine, like a badly played harmonica, cut through the quiet. A small static charge buzzed the atmosphere, and a shimmering waterfall of colours appeared and slowly coalesced into a human form. Finally, with all of his atoms reconfigured, Ronnie Smalls ran a hand through his hair and grinned at his colleagues.

“Surprise!” he said, winking at Flug.

“You a big naughty. Me fought it was ghost,” said Flug.

“A ghost in Skullenia? Who'd have thought,” said Ronnie.

Stitches went to the sink and finally got his drink. “What have you been up to then?” he asked Ronnie after downing a pint of the clear stuff.

“Nothing much,” answered Ronnie, pulling up a chair and sitting next to a now calmed down Flug. “Just been wandering round town trying to find something interesting to poke my nose into. You know, listening at doors, peeking through windows, that sort of thing. All in the interests of the agency, of course!”