Mr. Turner and I arrive at the scene of the murder of Mr. Archer right at the height of the afternoon. There are people at the edge of the shimmering Shield spell that conceals whatever had happened in the alleyway to the Mundane public. I can see it, of course, and Henry as well, so we go through the shield after pushing members of the public out of the way.
The last few times I did this, though it was long ago, the Examiners, magickers with the one job—and power—to Search and Find were always present. They are commonly used in place of search dogs in the Magickal community; they take their job seriously.
They are here now, already, crouching on the ground with their notepads, Search spells adorning the brick walls and shuffling on the wall as the spell structure twists in the middle. The spells are above the blood that seems to be dried and stained on the walls.
Which is a strange dark blue-ish sort of color. How peculiar. It certainly isn’t the blood of a Vice, which is black and has a pungent smell to it. What kind of creature bleeds like that?
The uncertainty of the whole situation causes my stomach to twist.
_It’s not a Vice, it’s not a Vice. _I think to myself. But even that doesn’t give me ease. Whatever killed the Archer man is dangerous. It seems only Fate that I have been chosen to deal with it.
I need the pain, the strain. But problems are most likely to arise from this case. I still don’t have a wand, even after six years of being shoved into the Magickal Community. I don’t want to.
I have my own reasons for that.
A chubby, middle-aged man steps forward, face drawn taut like a bow and his back straight and refined. He gives me a nod and outstretches his hand. “Mr. Greyhead, Mr. Turner, a pleasure to meet both of you, though I wish it was under different circumstances.”
I nod, but make no move to take his hand. He lowers it after a second. “As do I.”
“And I as well, sir.” Mr. Turner steps forward, extending his hand, which the man takes swiftly, eyeing me in question before giving his attention to Mr. Turner. “Who might you be?”
“Warlock Wilson, I’m the new head of the Examiner unit.” He waves behind him where the Examiners were still working quietly. “I didn’t think I’d ever be graced by your presence, Mr. Greyhead.”
I sigh inwardly at the obvious interest and praise in his tone. It makes my heart thud heavily and my stomach twists at odd angles, most likely trying to punish me for almost feeling a sense of pride at his tone. Almost, of course, never truly. “Well, I never thought I’d be back in the field…Mr. Wilson.”
“Sir Wilson, if you may.” He says it with such arrogance that my immediate thought is to stay as far away as I can, and my stomach settles back after seeing that I no longer feel that rare feeling anymore.
“Sir Wilson,” I nod to Mr. Turner who steps forward as if we’d been doing this all our lives, although he had just joined me about a year ago and during that time, I was out of the field and deep, deep into the work of the four-walled office building, “Mr. Turner will be”—I hesitate for a moment, trying to recall what I used to do in these moments—“asking you questions so that I may be informed of what you know at the moment.” Mr. Turner gives me a smile, though I turn my head so that my stomach does not pain me again. I’ll have to take my pills again as soon as the moment is over. The coffee seems to have diluted the effects of them. “Is Examiner Winn still employed?” I ask this question as flippantly as I can, though the answer that Sir Wilson supplies will either give or take the small amount of hope that I have.
Hope? My, these pills really are out of their usual spin.
Sir Wilson nods, then jerks his head to the farthest of the alleyway. “She should be over there, the noticeable one she is with the hair and all.”
I excuse myself, checking back once more despite myself to make sure that Mr. Turner is settled—he is, though it shouldn’t surprise me that a person such as him could tie the strings of any environment to his pleasure— then I go to where Sir Wilson gestured, moving swiftly through the sitting Examiners, careful not to get too close to their wandering spells. Last time I touched one, a spell that my opponent summoned during a competitive contest my aunt entered me into just five months after leaving Smallerville, the spell disappeared.
Later—it had happened when I was still living with my paternal aunt and cousins—a doctor was called to the house and it was discovered that I had absorbed the magickal energy of the spell and made it my own. My aunt was startled, but a form of pride and greed flashed into her eyes not even a minute after this became clear.
Then, the tests began. I never screamed, though I did cry, but through it all, I believed that I deserved every single part of it. She was right, it was my choice. And I chose to leave him in the rain.
I stop walking when I see a woman touching a wall where the blood is still wet. Her red hair is stark against her white, buttoned up cloak—the common attire for Examiners—and her bright green eyes, sharp as a cat’s, are watching her spell closely, waiting for it to show a sign that it found something. Her plain wand is in her hand—a wand made from a factory harvesting apple tree wood rather than a skilled Carver as Higher-Ups usually have. Wands for the Higher-Ups are made from their most valuable memories; the wands can take the shapes of objects, animals, and even people. The factory-made wand is customary for Lower-Downs, those who score below five thousand on the annual Scoring Test held by the Board. The Scoring Test determines who is worthy and who is not. Who is the highest of magickers and who is lowest and near mundane.
I scored 40,000. The highest ever was 12,000 before I was scored. It didn’t matter at the time to me at the age of nineteen. It still doesn’t matter. Your magickal ability doesn’t matter if you cast the one person who knew and loved you away out of fear.
Winnifred Jackson never talks to anyone who is rude, and if she doesn’t talk to you, you won’t get the information that you need. So, against everything inside of me, my stomach, mostly, I start the conversation. “Hello, Winnifred.”
“Hello, Mr. Greyhead, I thought you said you quit doing this kind of thing. Got bored with all those documents?”
“The opposite, really,” I straighten the neck of my coat to shield myself against the cold wind that has found its way into the alleyway, “I was getting very comfortable with it. But what the Board says goes. What have you found?”
She’s quiet for a moment, and we both watch her spell pause and pulse above a spot on the wall before stopping and flaring a bright red. Other Examiners stop and turn their attention to the spot on the wall that the spell stopped on.
Winnifred gives me a grin. “Something now.” She tilts her head to the side and points behind me. “I think Mr.—” She stops herself then says in a posh, mocking voice, “I mean Sir Wilson, is asking for your presence.” Indeed, when I turn, both Mr. Turner and Sir Wilson are beckoning to me. I turn back to Winnifred, who’s gathering her pens and papers and signalling all the other Examiners to start wrapping up also.
“Well,” I ask, ignoring the two men behind me for the moment, “Did you find anything useful?”
Winnifred has started moving to the opening of the alleyway where the rest of the Examiners are going through the Shield spell. “Yes, I have, though you may want to check in with Sir Wilson while I take this back to the lab.” She gives me a smile, then a quick pat on my back, quick enough that I can’t push her away. “You know where to find me.” Then she steps through the spell, leaving me watching her red hair disappear.
“Mr. Greyhead!” Sir Wilson and Mr. Turner approaches my left, Sir Wilson flicks his wand quickly, but not so quickly that I can’t tell the summoning circle he’s creating. A reverse Shield spell is what I gather. After a few moments, it seems I am right, and the mundane are revealed to the alleyway. The crowd that was once there has dispersed and all who remain are some pedestrians hurrying and scurrying to wherever they need to be. Most know better to peek, others seem to forget that nosiness is rude.
I feel their stares on my face. My heart races. I need to go home and get my pills. Or maybe the office—did I leave them there?
As I stumble my way out the alleyway, Mr. Turner calls for me. “What?” I snap. Everything feels too real. I hate it. I want my pills.
“Uh, Mr. Greyhead, Sir Wilson says that the Board needs us over at the MPFH” —the Mundane Police Force Headquarters, of course, human interactions will be the death of me if whatever the creature we’re searching for doesn’t kill me first— “He said that they have someone for us.”
“Yes, Mr. Greyhead.” Both men still when I turn to them. I wonder what expression is on my face. I feel irritated, so my face must be the same. Sir Wilson clears his throat and holds his wand at the edge of his fingers, light and loose. The summoning stance. “If you will please, sir.”
I reluctantly step into the arm width, and he completes the spell. Mr. Turner, a bundle of excitement than I ever saw him, is looking at me with a smile on his face. I’d forgotten that I was four years his senior; Henry Turner was fresh out of study when he was assigned to me and Miss Bass. This was probably how I should have been when I was starting in the field.
I was not.
“Never thought I’d be able to do something like this before,” his breath quickens as Sir Wilson finishes the spell. Teleportation. It lights up a dull grey and pulses for a few moments. “My brother and my sister, both are older and have more magick than I could ever dream of having, are in the BMI—did I already tell you that, Mr. Greyhead?”
I shake my head and watch the spell below me. I never knew Mr. Turner had siblings.
That’s because you never asked.
Pills. I need my pills. Please, any god out there that can hear me, please hurry this up.
“Sorry, my wand has been acting up this past week. I need to buy a new one and throw this hunk of junk out—ah! there we go.” Sir Wilson smiles in triumph and looks at me as though he expects praise.
I stay silent, hand above my heart and my mind a flurry, as the grey spell, almost as grey as me, engulfs us.
