Page 1 of A Skirl of Sorcery
Chapter
One
Iblamed Trilby. For the past three years, I’d tucked myself up in bed at a reasonable hour and enjoyed eight decent hours of uninterrupted kip almost every single night. It was what a cat lady was supposed to do; it was whatnormalpeople were supposed to do when they weren’t creatures of the night. Or hard-working, conscientious, well-prepared assassins.
Although I was neither vampire nor ban sith, nor any sort of darkness-dwelling denizen – and I was certainly no longer an assassin – I wasn’t normal, and it was Trilby who kept reminding me of that fact. Their repeated suggestion that I was responsible for the waifs and strays of Coldstream, and in particular my own small suburb of Danksville, was the reason why I was perched on top of Mrs Jones’s roof at half-past two in the morning. That, and the fact that there had been a recent spate of late-night robberies.
If I were being honest, I didn’t usually spend my time railing against thieves or trying to halt their actions. Given my own past, I wasn’t in a position to judge them. Most of the time they didn’t physically hurt anyone; in fact, most of the time they performed their burglaries and home invasions when their targets were out at work and the houses were empty. It was far safer and moresensible to steal when you weren’t likely to be caught by an irate homeowner with an explosive magical spell in their dressing-gown pocket.
However, the thief currently terrorising my neighbours had decided to throw logic and reason out of the proverbial window. For the past five nights, someone had broken into twelve separate occupied properties – three of which were on my street. Their actions were causing angst in my community and I was curious why our less-than-salubrious neighbourhood was garnering such unpleasant attention.
I also wanted to know why any thief would take such obvious risks. Sooner or later somebody would end up dead, and it was likely to be the burglar. I reckoned I could forestall any bloodshed if I found them first.
A warm breeze swirled up from below, making my sleek fur ripple. Although my feline eyes could pierce the darkness and fix on any twitch or jerk from a living or undead creature prowling the night, I had yet to locate my target.
There had been two strolling vamps an hour earlier, their heads bowed together in deep conversation, and around midnight I’d spotted a boggart shuffling towards the river. I’d noted several scurrying rats and I was fairly certain the slinking figure of my old buddy She Who Hisses had been padding behind them. But there hadn’t been any sign of my thief.
I turned my head left and right, then raised my front paw and gave it a vigorous lick before starting to wash my face. I might be in a temporary body, but that was no reason not to maintain standards of cleanliness. Once I was satisfied, I flexed my claws and stretched my back. Everything was in working order.
I shook out my fur and jumped to the next roof. I’d patrolled this way three times already so I’d give it another hour then call it a night. It was late April, after all, and although the summer solstice was still two months away, dawn came early at this timeof year. I was determined to get at least some sleep before the business of the day began. A woman could only do so much.
I pattered along the tiles, leaping across the chimneys that stood in my way, until I reached the end of the terrace of houses. I was tempted to drop to the ground and do a swift sweep of the surrounding streets – but as soon as that thought popped into my head there was a flicker of movement to my right.
I turned. At first I couldn’t see much though I could hear an odd snuffling sound. My ears twitched and I looked in the direction of the noise. A small, stout figure was shuffling through the shadows.
Interesting. From their stuttering steps and hunched shoulders, this was someone who didn’t want to be seen. If it was my thief, they possessed little in the way of confidence and they didn’t look as if they were someone to be feared. Quite the opposite.
Their head was bowed, making it impossible to tell what manner of Preternatural they were until they were almost directly below me. It was only when they turned to check over their shoulder that I realised: it was a male trow, likely middle aged. Huh. Trows were nocturnal creatures and if this was the thief it explained why all the burglaries took place during the night.
Unless I was mistaken, this particular trow was from the hills rather than water. Water trows were skinnier than their land-dwelling counterparts and they had gills on either side of their neck. It was odd, though: hill trows preferred the countryside and rarely ventured into the city, so there were few reasons why one would come to Coldstream.
I watched him wend his way along the road. Although my cat eyes could only decipher a narrow range of colours, I could tell that his cloak was moss green and his knee-high boots were made from supple dark leather. He was holding a drawstringbag in one hand, which likely contained the ill-gotten gains he’d garnered that night. All I had to do was establish that he was the thief who’d been skulking through Danksville for the better part of a week and my task was halfway complete.
I purred, then skittered down the roof and jumped down to the ground so I could follow him more easily. With luck, he was planning another burglary and I would catch him in the act, though if he was already heading home for the night it might complicate matters.
The trow was muttering to himself, ragged, angry words escaping his mouth with every fourth step.Bastards. Fools. City scum:there was a definite theme. I prowled after him, leaving enough distance not to alert him to my presence, but he seemed to be fixated on his destination and he didn’t turn around again. This was too easy.
We passed house after house, some ablaze with lights as if the occupants were worried that they would be targeted next. The trow didn’t pause at any of them. He shuffled past the small witchery store that contained mostly stale, useless spells that were for sale at inflated prices. He didn’t glance at any of the blocks of flats that would surely have offered ripe pickings but would have made a hasty getaway difficult. He ignored the crossroads that led towards the riverside and the empty market stalls. In fact, he kept going until he reached one of the larger houses in Danksville: a detached sandstone monstrosity decorated with gargoyles and grotesques.
Once upon a time it had been occupied by a powerful coven, but these days a commune of peripheral characters who lived on the fringes of polite society inhabited it. They were the sort of people who didn’t quite fit in with the local Danksville community but still enjoyed the company of others rather than wanting hermit-like solitude. They shared clothes, meals and often beds.
It was a strange place to target for a robbery since the residents eschewed all but the most essential items for day-to-day living and certainly didn’t have much money or many items of value. Perhaps the trow had chosen it because they were mostly harmless and unlikely to hurt an intruder, even if they caught one in the act; they’d be more inclined to offer him some nettle soup and a comfy chair than tie him up and call the MET to arrest him.
I hung back while he opened the garden gate and plodded towards the house. The commune grew most of their own produce and used every scrap of useable outdoor space so the trow had to pick his way carefully through foliage. He was incredibly careful for a thief and didn’t once tread on anything that might be harvested. His respect made me doubt my suspicions; maybe he wasn’t a burglar at all but simply an innocent visitor.
When he reached the door, however, he delved into his pocket and pulled out a small box. He took out a pinch of powder and sprinkled it on his hand before crouching down and blowing it towards the lock. Alrighty. He was definitely breaking in.
I bounded forward, leapt onto the stone wall that surrounded the house and down into the garden, then ran forward until I was directly behind the trow. When my claws scraped on a pile of broken eggshells that had been saved for compost, he finally registered my presence. Turning around, he blinked owlishly down at me then placed a finger to his lips and crouched down to scratch my ears.
I hissed and backed up before he could touch me. The trow shrugged. ‘Suit yourself, kitty,’ he whispered.
I usually did.
My whiskers quivered and I started to cough until I’d hacked up the magicked furball from my stomach. I had to be quick: I was vulnerable during the brief moments of transformation.Thankfully, the trow was too astonished to do more than stare; it was only when I was back on two feet and pulling back my lips to offer him a human snarl that he roused himself to action.
He threw himself forward and his short but powerful body smacked into mine. He shoved me so hard that I staggered, then he swerved around me and ran, his feet slapping against the earth. He wasn’t worried about stepping on the plants now; all the trow was thinking about was escape.
He vaulted the garden gate and sprinted left but he only covered about five metres before I launched myself at his back and sent both of us sprawling to the cobbles. He struggled and writhed but it was clear he wouldn’t get away.
