Breaking the Lore Read online

  The sergeant moved away towards the constables. Paris waited until the elf reached him, then spoke quietly.

  ‘Well? What can you tell me?’

  ‘It is definitely a centaur,’ replied Tergil. ‘And, judging by the different-sized hoof prints on the roofs and sides of the vehicles, he was not alone.’

  ‘Makes sense. Witnesses thought they saw men on horses. Any idea how many?’

  ‘I cannot say. Several of the flock must have been here.’

  The inspector raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Flock?’ he said. ‘That’s not the collective noun for a group of horses.’

  ‘It is the collective noun for a group of horse people.’

  Paris didn’t really feel qualified to argue. Tergil was, after all, his expert.

  ‘So how was he killed? I suppose we’re looking at the Vanethria again?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tergil. ‘There are signs that demons were here, although why they would be fighting centaurs on a street in Manchester I do not know. Nonetheless, that is what happened. Among them must be a sorcerer, who conjured up a mystical scythe. This is essentially a magic blade which cuts through anything it touches. In this case, him.’

  Paris shook his head. ‘It gets better and better,’ he said. ‘Not only have I got a gang of demonic murderers on the loose, now I’ve got an evil wizard too. Plus other bloody supernatural creatures cropping up all over the place.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘You, for instance. And Rocky. Yesterday somebody reported seeing a unicorn. Tonight we’ve had teenagers spotting pixies and a woman complaining about goblins raiding her bin. I’ve got more dwarves than I know what to do with. And a motorist said he just managed to stop before he hit a lion, except when he looked closer it had an eagle’s head and wings.’

  ‘Boddorox.’

  ‘No, it’s true.’

  Tergil smiled. ‘The griffin is named Boddorox.’

  Paris frowned at him. Nobody likes a smartass. Certainly not a smartass elf.

  The flash of a mobile phone camera went off to the left. Paris blinked to clear his vision. Years ago, he thought, you could cover things up properly. Nowadays it was practically impossible. Thorpe might as well not bother with the wrapping paper.

  ‘Tell me about these horse people,’ he said. ‘Surely there isn’t a mob of them wandering round Manchester?’

  ‘Not normally,’ replied Tergil. ‘They live in wild places out in the countryside and stay away from your kind. This was probably a member of the Peak District flock.’

  Paris pondered. There isn’t a group of these things out there; it’s more than one group. How many magical critters would he have to deal with? One thing was for sure: he was going to need some bigger holding cells.

  ‘So what’s he doing here?’ he asked. ‘Apart from being dead.’

  Tergil raised his head and looked around.

  ‘Where are we?’ he asked. ‘In relation to where you found the fairy?’

  Paris waved an arm towards the end of the road. ‘This part of Manchester’s called Withington. The fairy was in a garden in Didsbury, maybe three miles that way. Next district.’

  ‘And the most southerly part of the city,’ said Tergil. ‘So this is closer to the city centre?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the inspector. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, in that case, I do not understand why they were here. They would have no reason to venture this far into Manchester.’

  Paris stared down at the elf, saying nothing for a moment. He very carefully considered what he’d been told.

  ‘They wouldn’t venture this far,’ he said. ‘Not “they wouldn’t go into Manchester at all”. So they would go a little way in. As far as Didsbury, I’m thinking. Right?’

  Tergil didn’t reply. Paris pressed.

  ‘It’s something to do with where we found the fairy,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it?’

  The elf said nothing. His expression showed no emotion. But, in the flash of camera lights, did Paris imagine a bead of sweat on his forehead?

  The inspector felt a tap on his shoulder. Bonetti’s face appeared next to his ear.

  ‘The lab boys have arrived, Boss.’

  Paris gritted his teeth. His sergeant’s timing was impeccably awful. However, he knew the TV crews with their high-powered lighting rigs couldn’t be far behind, and he had no desire to see sliced centaur on the news just yet.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, his eyes still fixed on Tergil. ‘Let me talk to them.’ He leant his head forward, staring intently at the elf. ‘And we’re going to talk some more later.’

  Paris turned away, walking towards the large van parked behind Monaghan’s patrol car. He ignored the shouts of the street’s residents, lost in concentration. Plus it would be very hard to tell people what was going on when he didn’t know himself. The garden where they’d found the fairy had to be important, although Tergil had time to concoct a story now. What did demons find interesting about elves, other than their ability to be bloody obstructive? The gears inside his brain churned away, trying to fit it all together. No use. Somehow they just weren’t meshing.

  ‘Bonetti,’ he said, as he walked along. ‘Once I’ve spoken to the lab boys, I’m going back to the station. I’ll leave you in charge here. Can you manage that?’

  ‘Sure, Boss. But why are you off?’

  ‘Research,’ replied Paris. ‘I need to find an expert on magical beings. A real one, who’ll be a bit more helpful. And preferably someone my own species.’

  ‘Okay. Then what?’

  ‘Then I’ve got some gears to lubricate.’

  12

  Tergil must come back to the station, Paris knew that for certain. Rocky had been left in another trance-like state, but it wouldn’t last forever. So the elf had to return at some point. However, Paris wasn’t expecting it to be barely twenty minutes after he’d got there himself. There hadn’t been time to prepare for the load of made-up stories. There hadn’t been time to search the Internet for magic experts. Most important of all, there hadn’t even been time to open the emergency bottle of whisky.

  ‘You’re back,’ he said. ‘Did you miss us?’

  ‘I cannot help your scientists,’ replied Tergil. ‘And I did not wish to stay any longer than I needed to.’

  Paris nodded a grudging agreement. ‘Fair enough, I suppose. There’s a dead magical creature lying in the road. It won’t help the situation if somebody spots a live one.’

  Tergil tapped his forehead. ‘We should be grateful for woollen hats.’

  The inspector sat and looked at him. He couldn’t argue with the elf’s logic. Although he could probably think of better things to be glad of.

  ‘May I sit down?’ asked Tergil.

  Paris waved a hand towards the chair on the other side of his desk. Tergil sat down, casting his eyes around the room.

  ‘Your man Officer Daley had to come back to the station, so I came with him. And now here I am, in your office. Which, I might say, is more pleasant than the interview room. Slightly.’

  Paris said nothing, acutely aware of everything Tergil saw. The two filing cabinets, bulging with papers. The small bookcase with one corner held up by a block of wood. The two-seater couch where he’d have to sleep tonight, since his own house wasn’t safe. And the complete and total lack of any pictures, certificates, awards or ornamentation of any kind. He’d put as much of his personality into this office as his own living room. God, how depressing.

  Tergil finished the visual tour and settled his gaze back on Paris.

  ‘It would appear that Rocky and I are not the only magical guests here tonight. I met some dwarves on the way in.’

  Figures, thought the policeman. The dwarves didn’t seem to grasp that keeping away from the Vanethria included keeping out of sight, so they pottered about the building non-stop. These little people may be able to sneak around without being noticed outside, but inside they were quite happy to be seen. In fact, Eric and co. had been delighted
to show “Mr Parrots” all the things they’d found. And while half a packet of biscuits was a pretty good discovery, he didn’t see how anyone could get quite so excited over a hole punch.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘They’re a bit of a nuisance, to be honest. Still alive, though, which is more than can be said for that centaur. Or the fairy.’

  Tergil’s eyes narrowed. ‘I gather it is time for us to, as you say, cut the small talk. Correct?’

  Paris stared across the desk at the elf. He would’ve adopted the stern expression normally used in these situations, but decided not to bother. It’s hard to do good cop, bad cop when you’re the only one there.

  ‘Very well,’ said Tergil. ‘You wish to ask me additional questions?’

  ‘I do,’ replied Paris. ‘Lots. For instance, how do centaurs get around without being spotted? Where do you magical creatures come from? And the one that’s really bugging me: how come you all speak English?’

  Tergil seemed slightly puzzled.

  ‘We are in England,’ said the elf. ‘I assumed English would be the tongue you wished to use. If not, I can also speak Elven, Dwarfish, Troll. Plus German, Spanish, Urdu, Russian, Greek. And some Mandarin.’

  Paris found himself rendered speechless, in any language. O-level French suddenly felt like a very long time ago.

  He considered just doing bad cop: banging on the table and demanding answers. Too risky. Tergil might clam up completely, then he wouldn’t find out anything. Better to take it slow, he decided.

  ‘English is fine,’ he said. ‘Look, I’m trying to help you here. My job’s on the line for covering things up. But I need to understand what’s going on. Why are all these mystical beings wandering round? It must be something to do with where we found the fairy. Tell me what.’

  Tergil stared back at him, saying nothing for a moment. Then he leant forward, folding his arms on the desk.

  ‘As you are aware,’ he said, ‘the Vanethria entered the human world to recapture escapees from the magic world. They have told everyone to return. Everyone is here, in southern Manchester, in order to do so.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There is a portal between the two worlds. And it is located in that garden.’

  Paris frowned. He’d expected Tergil to make up a better story than this.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve been there, remember? We’ve searched it for evidence. I didn’t see any mystic gateway.’

  ‘Why should you?’ asked the elf. ‘You were not looking for it and you have no idea what to look for.’

  Makes sense, thought Paris. In all likelihood there wasn’t going to be a big flashing sign saying “this way”. Again, he couldn’t argue with the logic. This was getting to be an annoying habit.

  ‘Humans have no knowledge of the portal,’ continued Tergil. ‘When we travel between the worlds, we do not want to face armed border patrols, or customs officials, or hordes of tabloid photographers. And can you imagine if the satyrs or the centaurs had to go into quarantine?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Paris. ‘But, as of now, one human does know about it. So why are you telling me?’

  ‘You worked out that there is something there. If I do not tell you what, you will go back with dozens of men to take the whole site apart, stone by stone.’

  The inspector suppressed a smile. Tergil obviously thought manpower and budgets were more readily available than Superintendent Thorpe did.

  ‘I gather you don’t want us to do that?’

  ‘During your search you may damage the portal or prevent it from working. This would be in neither of our interests. We both want it to remain open and fully functional. I may wish to use it in the future. As for you: magical creatures are heading there so they can go back to their world. Once they have all done so, your problems will be solved.’

  Paris studied the elf’s face. As hard to read as ever, yet the words had the ring of truth. He’d known there must be something in that garden. He also realised he’d done a great job of making the place look like a hoax. No yellow tape cordoned off the area. No officers patrolled it. Bugger.

  ‘That’s why you were nervous,’ he said. ‘You didn’t want to tell me about it.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Tergil. ‘The portal is a secret, one we guard with our lives.’ He leant closer and spoke in a whisper. ‘And one I am now revealing to you.’

  Paris sat back in his chair. This needed serious contemplating. He’d learnt a fact which no other person knew, apparently. So what was he going to do with this information? And why the hell was there a magic gateway in a back garden in Didsbury?

  As he pondered, something caught his attention. He peered over Tergil’s shoulder, through the window in his office door. The window where he’d just seen a strange blue shape go bobbing past. And now another one.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ asked the elf.

  ‘No idea,’ replied Paris.

  He stood up, heading for the door. He opened it, and saw two dwarves walking in single file. They were each carrying, on their head, a large blue bottle from the water cooler down the hall.

  ‘What the hell?’ said Paris.

  The two little men stopped walking. The one at the back turned, beaming up at him.

  ‘Hello, Mr Parrots. Look what we found.’

  Paris rolled his eyes. He was reasonably certain that offering someone asylum didn’t mean having the building taken apart by them. Then again, maybe he could use this to his advantage. He needed time to think over what he’d been told and this offered a good excuse to stop the discussion. Besides, the dwarves required sorting out while some of the station remained intact. If they weren’t very careful, this Poetical Alsatian was going to bite them on the bum.

  He turned towards Tergil.

  ‘It’s late,’ he said. ‘We can talk again tomorrow. You’d better go check on Rocky, then get some sleep.’

  ‘Certainly. Are you going to do the same?’

  ‘In a while,’ replied Paris. ‘First I’ve got to see a little man about a dog.’

  13

  Chorlton had never been Paris’s favourite part of Manchester. The pavement cafes and eccentric shops gave the suburb a self-proclaimed “bohemian” quality that really wasn’t his cup of tea. It was, however, the perfect place to come if you were looking for something unusual. And Paris sought something very unusual indeed.

  It was already a strange morning. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sneaked out through the station fire exit to avoid a horde of reporters. Not surprisingly, they’d turned out in force for rumours of a dead centaur. Still only hearsay, though; nothing conclusive. The lab boys had obviously got their tent up over the body before anyone managed a clear photo. So there remained the possibility of producing a cover-up story – even if he had no idea what it might be.

  Perhaps he should ask Tergil. Paris hadn’t spoken to him since last night, although he’d thought a lot about what the elf said. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted a second opinion. Hence the trip out here.

  Paris folded his arms, examining the entrance in front of him through tired eyes. Not much sleep last night, after finally getting the dwarves under control. Not much searching the Internet either, so he needed to rely on quality rather than quantity. And, according to his research, this was where he would find his expert on magic. This was where he’d meet a genuine witch. This, however, was a doorway next to a kebab shop, leading to a badly lit flight of stairs. If you didn’t know it was there, you might walk straight past it. Bonetti looked as if he wished they had done.

  ‘You sure about this, Boss?’ asked the sergeant. ‘I mean, if you want an expert, shouldn’t we be at the university?’

  ‘Definitely not,’ replied Paris. ‘Attract too much attention. We’d have the press all over us. You saw the station this morning – every paper in the country must’ve been trying to grab hold of Thorpe. Every paper, plus the chief constable. No; we’re better off here, out the way.’

  Bonetti gru
nted.

  ‘Suppose so,’ he said.

  The inspector gave him a curious look.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Paris. ‘You’ve witnessed a dead centaur. You’ve talked to a troll. Don’t tell me a little bit of hocus-pocus has got you nervous?’

  Bonetti shook his head.

  ‘It’s not that,’ he replied. ‘Have you seen the sign?’

  He pointed towards the black Gothic writing above the doorway.

  ‘The Witch’s Brew,’ he read out. ‘Lotions, potions, charms, balms – and home beer-making supplies?’

  ‘So they’ve branched out,’ said Paris. ‘It’s still the least weird thing I’ve seen in the last couple of days. The woman who runs it is the leading authority among the “alternative community”. She’s written loads of stuff about magical creatures.’

  ‘What? Peter the Pixie and the Horrible Hangover?’

  ‘No,’ said Paris slowly. ‘Scientific studies. To do with where they’ve been spotted over the years and the sort of things they’re supposed to get up to.’ He grinned. ‘Kind of a supernatural history.’

  Bonetti stared blankly back at him.

  Paris sighed. ‘Don’t know why I bother.’

  They made their way up the battered stairs towards a plain wooden door at the top. Paris opened it and stepped inside. He found himself in the corner of a shop bathed in subdued red lighting. The smell of incense drifted across the room, accompanied by the muted tinkling of supposedly relaxing music. Typical New Age twaddle, thought Paris. Typical bloody Chorlton.

  He looked around the store. The solid wooden counter stood across the other side from him, with a pair of velvet curtains behind it. Paris guessed that they concealed some sort of office. The other three walls were covered in rows of shelves, like a Victorian apothecary. Or a Victorian’s nightmare. On two sides, animal skulls of various sizes gazed out from between bizarrely shaped candles and jars of unidentifiable substances. Ornaments and pendants lay draped across them. Statues of gargoyles and barbarian warriors sprawled onto the floor. And on the third wall were arranged tins of homebrew malt, thermometers, measuring cylinders and what appeared to be a dead bat.