‘They’re deadly. Try telling one of them they don’t exist and they’d raze us to the ground.’
‘Are you kidding?’
‘I wish I were. The Connection is savvy about who they bully. Ironically, the mer have the IR too, and what really gets the wizards’ robes in a twist is the fact that they don’t need to go to the Common to charge their magical batteries. So even though they’re largely humanoid, they fall on the creature side of the fence.’ I grinned. ‘They love to pose as wizards though, so they often draw the Other symbol on their foreheads while they’re strolling around the Other.’
‘They … draw it on?’
‘With eyeliner,’ I confirmed.
He slid me a sidelong glance. ‘Is this an initiation prank? Are you taking the piss out of me, boss?’
I laughed. ‘I swear it’s true. The really funny thing is, it’s just makeup, so on the rare occasions they do it, Common realmers can actually see it. They just dismiss it as weird cosplay. Thank goodness for the surge in the fantasy fandom.’
Channing shook his head. ‘I honestly thought I’d got a solid grasp on who was what and where.’
‘You’re doing good, Channing, but I’ve been in the Other realm for most of my life, and I’m fully aware that I still don’t know half of what there is to know about the Other. The Other denizens love their secrets. Remember that and you’ll be okay. Always be ready for anything.’
‘That’s pretty broad advice,’ he complained.
‘And it’s completely true. Now come on, it’s time for us to go speak to a ghoul.’
He shuddered. ‘They really do eat the dead?’
‘Oh yeah, and trust me, you don’t want to see it. That shit will give you nightmares for weeks.’
‘Can’t wait,’ he said faintly, looking so green I half-expected him to photosynthesise.
I grinned. I was starting to enjoy this partnering thing.
Chapter Four
It was nearing 5pm and I was grateful to be approaching Overleigh Old Cemetery in the full sun of summer rather than the gloomy dank of winter. The warm light splashing down felt at odds with the purpose of the place.
Channing and I walked through the gates, and we took the winding path towards the rather obnoxiously ornate grave of Henry Raikes, where I’d asked to meet my sometimes confidential informant (CI), Lance Biggins.
The drone of traffic buzzed softly in my ears, with the occasional warble of a nearby bird superseding it. I instinctively looked for Loki, but he wasn’t here; he was still at home, resting. I was looking forward to checking on him. I had enough on my plate right now without worrying about my feathered friend.
I was done pussyfooting around; it wasn’t my style. I was going to push him tonight, I decided. I needed to know what was wrong with him so that I could help. If he was sick, I’d take him to Amber DeLea and force her to heal him, bird or not. I’d emptymy meagre savings if I needed to. That damned caladrius wasn’t dying on my watch.
Biggins stepped out of the dappled forest, halting my downward spiral. The dark-haired ghoul moved with a shambling lurch that reminded me all too much of the juddering movements of his zombie cousins. His clothing, as always, left much to be desired. He was dressed in what was once a high-end tracksuit, but was now worn, stained and giving off a foul odour that was less about his species and more about his poor hygiene practices.
‘Breathe through your mouth,’ I murmured to Channing hastily as a small gagging noise emanated from my partner.
Ghouls have to consume dead flesh to survive, which frankly is better than requiring the living kind. They exist on a tipping point: the fresher the death, the better the flesh is for them. In the UK’s soil—cool, moist, and oxygen-poor—most bodies keep their flesh for a year or two at most before they desiccate, but if ghouls leave a corpse too long, they risk finding nothing but the equivalent of human jerky.
Luckily, they don’t have to eat often.
As for Biggins, I could tell he had fed not too long ago since he looked almost human. His flesh was grey, and yes, thanks to his diet he smelled terrible, but at a glance, he could pass as nothing more than a man with terrible hygiene.
‘Biggins,’ I called to him. ‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m awright, mate. Tickin’ over. You know how it goes.’ The Cockney accent came out thick and broad. ‘Everything tickety-boo with you, sweetheart?’
‘I’ve told you not to call me that,’ I groused.
‘Don’t mean nothin’ by it, luv.’
I sighed and let it go. ‘Did you hear about Lord Marlow’s recent death?’
