Page 4 of Any More Questions for the Corpse?

“But Dad, I’ve got this thing tonight, I’m gonna be knackered.”

“Now son, don’t be greedy.”

“Stop being so selfish,” yelled one of his various siblings. This was the real reason Mal hated coming here. While his parents seemed nice and all, they didn’t do it out of the kindness of their hearts. For one, they literally didn’t have hearts, and for two, their niceness was always followed by a request. A request Mal could never refuse.

“Fine …” Mal said, caving once again.

His parents came in for a hug and Mal’s eyes went black with three white circles. He didn’t need to search for his powers; he’d been topping his parents up for as long as he could remember. Mal cringed at their touch and felt the energy drain from his very being. They would have more than enough to get them to their regularly scheduled top-up, but they always seemed to want more. Mal let go and nearly fell over, he was so exhausted. He felt as if he’d just run a marathon—not that he knew what that felt like, but he imagined this was just as unpleasant.

“That’s my boy. Now go get ready for tonight.” Mal headed for the front door, sidestepping his siblings.

Just as he reached it, his mum said, “I feel a bit lighter than normal. You haven’t been using your powers, have you, son?”

“No, Mum,” Mal said, keeping his face as blank as possible.

“Good, good, and remember, don’t be out too late.”

This last request was not out of concern, but rather a keenness for Mal to conserve his energy. The others could do as they wished, but everything Mal did had to be inspected under a microscope. Lying to them was the only way he could keep any semblance of a real life, and even that was dogged by the constant drain Mal felt upon his magic. Mal felt more akin to a prized pig than a valued son. At least University had garnered him some reprieve from this madness, but all the lying and the secrets had left him a tad isolated. He’d thought a lot about letting his parents return to their eternal sleep; however, his siblings made that complicated.

He checked the time on his phone as he left; Mal only had half an hour to get back to Uni before his classes started up again. But all he really wanted to do was lie down. He picked up his feet and made his way to the transportal station that was closest to his parents’ house. He got in a queue that would land him close to his dorms, and waited his turn.

2An Orderly Introduction

Dunwich was, and still very much is, a city you couldn’t find on any maps. It was a city in England, that was to be sure: red letterboxes, abandoned phone booths, pubs with odd names on every corner, people complaining about the weather, and a general sense that everyone around you was desperate for their next cup of tea. It was a capital city, but while London was the “mundane” capital of England, Dunwich was the magical capital. Asking whereabouts Dunwich was would be akin to asking whereabouts your soul is in your body; you might point to your head or to your heart, but you wouldn’t be able to pin down a precise location. Dunwich was, in this sense, the very soul of England, and as such it smelled something awful.

Approximately as big as London, Dunwich housed a couple million mages, sorcerers, warlocks, and wizards. It was as diverse a cultural hub as its counterpart, with people coming from the thousands of other magical cities across the globe, just with a few more werewolves. It had its own governing body that reported to the British government, and it had its own public transportation system that reported even more delays than the London Underground. This was especially impressive, considering it was made up of transportal doors that allowed you to teleport instantly to different sections of the city—after a considerable queue, of course. Should you want to go back to the regular, less magical cities England had to offer, these transportal doors were your only option. Most wizards hired a shrinker if they wished to use their cars on these trips, because, as I’m sure you’re well aware, cars are bigger than doors. Mal could never understand why they didn’t make the doors bigger, and let more people through at the same time. He once asked someone who worked at a transportal station that very question and received a look so malicious it breached the Public Order Act of 1986.

Mal had just used one of these doors, and was now walking up Copperfield Street. The sun rested itself behind the city’s skyline, and a breeze carried warm air down the street. Large cobblestone slabs lined the pavement, and a mixture of Gothic and Victorian fronts lined the buildings alongside him. When he got to the intersection with Bow Street he remarked at how unremarkable the crossroads was. Not as wide and grand as the crossroads between Oxford and Regents Streets, and not as small and quaint as an intersection between any two countryside capillaries. There couldn’t have been more than a dozen pedestrians on or about the intersection, which made it a rather quiet crossing for Dunwich.

Mal stood against a wall, trying to look nondescript; this of course only made him look more descript. He still donned the smart jacket he’d gotten from his dad, and he’d managed not to crease the shirt his mum had ironed. He’d even put on a different pair of jeans to his usual well-worn ones. He’d squashed his curly hair to one side, and a full but light stubble had crept onto his face. He’d polished a pair of black dress shoes which he’d forgotten to wear, sporting Converse instead. Although not sick, he had dark, recessed features and the exuberance to match a corpse. He didn’t consider himself ugly, but he did consider his appearance unremarkable.

He’d arrived uncharacteristically early; better to be punctual when meeting a clandestine organization that’s uncovered your darkest secrets for the first time. That’s what Mal had always said. DCI Walters had also arrived early. When he spotted Mal, he nudged his head in a way that indicated that Mal should follow. Which Mal did, if cautiously. He wasn’t sure if the fact Walters was a cop made him more or less trustworthy. He followed Walters across the intersection to the front of a Georgian townhouse, whose door sat rather perfectly in line with the center of the crossroads. Before the door was a raised walkway with a gate; a black spiked railing ran out from either side of this gate, protecting the clumsiest of folk from falling into the deep recesses behind it. Rather than taking them up the walkway and into the house, Walters walked them to the right, down a tiny, awkward set of steps that plunged deep into the recess. There was barely enough room to walk single file; if you had tried to raise your elbows (which Mal did), you would have failed miserably (which Mal did). From the basement level, Mal could now see that the house was not their intended destination. To his left, facing toward the street, was a door unseeable from the surface—an old, wooden door with three locks. Walters ignored the locks and pushed his palm slowly against the door. Mal heard the locks popping open, one, two, three, then a fourth. The door then gently creaked open of its own accord.

Where Mal had expected a cold, dreary tunnel, he instead found a well-lit, clean stairway. It was still as cramped as could be expected, but not as grimy as the recess had been. He walked for a few moments, down and round, round and down, until eventually the stairway came to an opening. A warm, flickering light swam out through it, but before Mal could get a good glimpse of anything inside, Walters stopped and spoke.

“It’s a lot to take in. Just stay calm. Nice shirt by the way. Shame about the shoes.”

They took the final few steps and emerged into a vast, circular room; stone pillars pronounced themselves from the floor and expanded into vaulted arches that curved and domed into the ceiling. Mal’s shoes clomped on rich dark wood that matched the wooden paneling that covered the far walls, each panel embossed and decorated with an elegant precision. A smoky, wood-fire smell permeated the room with the warmth you’d expect to accompany it, but no fires or fireplaces could be seen. Plush velveteen armchairs and sofas lay in a smattering around the room, each surrounding small tables; perfect for the conclaves Mal imagined happened here on the regular. Mal thought rooms this grand were reserved for films or for pretentious people with too much money.

At the center of the room was an ancient marble statue that depicted a three-headed woman. Mal, like all wizards, knew this to be the Greek goddess Hecate, considered by most Western magic folk to be the mother of magic. She, or rather, the being that resembled her, was the first to push magic into our world. The first “Great Soul of Magic.” It was said that each of her faces represented one of her gifts. There was much contention as to what the Great Souls were. Some thought them otherworldly beings; some outer gods; others described them as a harmony upon the soul. Mal thought of them more like ethereal parasites, but then again, he wasn’t very fond of his powers.

Mal was confused as to the statue’s presence here of all places, but as he stared upon its many faces, he felt something stir within him. Within him, but not of him. He’d always wondered what hideous being could have glommed onto his soul; whatever “great” soul held sway over necromancy, it was clearly a fan of Hecate. Surrounding the statue were dozens of real, non-stone faces peering at him from cabals and conversations, all wide-eyed and judging. Judging him. Mal felt a distinct awkwardness, like he had suddenly been thrust upon a stage. Walters turned to him.

“Welcome to the Order of the Unseen Face, kid.” Walters presented Mal to the room. There couldn’t have been more than sixty people there, but Mal felt as though he were about to perform in front of thousands.

Awaiting them both at the front of the crowd was a tall, imposing character with soft eyes. While most of the room had dressed up, they had instead donned a more casual attire: a comfortable pullover with a checkered shirt and jeans. They enthusiastically took Mal’s hand, and as Mal met their gaze, he felt a sudden rush of thoughts and memories. Mal found it impossible to break eye contact and watched as their eyes transformed into chromatic silver surfaces, reflecting Mal’s face back at him. Memories flooded and leaked from Mal’s mind, but they just kept smiling and shaking his hand like nothing was happening. When they spoke, Mal didn’t hear their words, but rather felt them. Within his head echoed the words “A pleasure to meet you, welcome, welcome,” in time with their lips.

In a flash, it was over. Their silvery eyes returned to normal, and they finally released Mal’s hand. Mal was in a hot sweat and was as flustered as a chicken in a fox coop.

“Let me just say a few words …” they said, turning to the crowd, who all hushed in anticipation.

“It’s not often we get new blood in here.” Mal had noticed that most of the crowd was at least in their forties. “Let alone an actual necromancer. Finally someone for you to impart your wisdom to, ey, Kosh. Lord help him.” The crowd let out a chuckle, and a bald, pale man from the center of the room smiled wide and laughed loudest. “We’ll start our meeting in a moment once everyone’s had a chance to introduce themselves. Don’t mention his parents; that’s a touchy subject, but other than that he seems a good sort. We’re very pleased to welcome you, Malowin Gladstone!” The room erupted into timid applause. Mal wasn’t sure if being called a “good sort” canceled out the glaring admission about his parents, but he was sure that the applause made him intensely uncomfortable.

“Sorry about that,” they said, turning back to Mal. “Please, call me Amrit.” Mal was hesitant to speak, worried that he might have to shake their hand again.

“Amrit’s in charge,” Walters whispered from behind Mal.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Mal said, forcing the words out as quickly as possible.