Page 23 of Any More Questions for the Corpse?

“Give them someone else?” Des said.

“Who?” Mal said. “There’s no one else who could have done this.”

“What, they magically know about every necromancer in England?” Hala said, to which Mal just nodded.

“It’s kind of what they do,” he said.

Hala just replied with an “Ahh.”

“What about Mazino?” Des said. “No one knows where he is. Taran said he was a necromancer. Why couldn’t it be him?”

At that moment the doors opened and Walters beckoned for them to follow, which they did. They went through the corridors of the headquarters, down several winding passages, and through strange archways. Mal caught a glimpse of a very strange room that pulled on his magic, but Walters walked him straight past it. After a few moments they arrived at a giant metal slab in the wall. There was no handle—there was no indication it was even a door—but it opened all the same, parting in the middle where a seam had not existed. They entered and the door sealed shut behind them. Then another slab opened in front of them, again opening from solid metal. As the second slab opened, a wave of dread forced the contents of Mal’s stomach onto the floor. He had never felt his death sense so strongly before. Mal stumbled and Des helped him stay on his feet. They walked into what seemed like a crypt; it was as silent and dead as the stone corpses that filled it. Hideous, realistic statues lined the walls. Each had a translucent jar at its base with a strange object inside. They followed Walters along until he stopped at a particularly grotesque figure, a stone skeleton whose expression was nothing but rage and hate. In its jar was a single red gemstone floating in limbo. Walters picked up the jar and showed it to the group.

“Meet Mazino,” Walters said. “His soul is in this ruby. What’s left of his body is now cousins with Michelangelo’s David. He didn’t do shit this weekend because he’s been here for fifty years. That fate worse than death, you’re looking at it.” They stared at the grotesque statue. Every time they looked, it seemed as if he was about to scream at them. Mal’s head throbbed with pain. Walters carefully put down the jar and walked them back out through the metal slabs. Before they left the vault, Mal caught Walters whispering something to Des.

“They’re listening to everything you say. Keep those teeth hidden. I’m fighting for you.”

Mal smiled; he immediately dropped the smile as Walters turned and caught his eye. When they arrived back at the library, there were now stacks of boxes near the entrance.

“You want to be useful?” Walters said. “Look through these.”

“Are these suspects?” Des said.

“Members,” Walters said. “Our members. Tell me if anyone stands out.”

“Why would you give us your member list?” Yu said. “Why do you want us investigating this place?”

“I believe someone here is behind the murders, and no matter what happens here, your minds will be wiped. So, why not make use of you? You can have a hand at being proper detectives, like Des.”

“Why would we want to do that?” Hala said.

“Well, you don’t have to, but it’s not gonna hurt your cause, is it? Anyway, I thought you wanted do to some good?” And with that Walters left. Mal looked at the pile of boxes and brought up his chair next to one. The group bickered for a bit about whether or not to do it, but ended up agreeing that it was better than doing nothing. And so the work started.

11Locked in the Library

Busywork, or work, as many office-goers call it, is a singular exercise in tedium. Your boss knows it. Your colleagues know it. You know it. And yet, when tasked with something of absolutely no consequence, everyone just does it. You may complain—in fact, you should complain—but the work still gets done. Whether it’s giving an intern a cupboard full of wires to organize or making copies of a document no one’s going to read, you know busywork when you’re handed it.

Mal recognized the stench of busywork as he hauled a box of personnel files up into his arms. The fireplace was now a roaring coal-bed, so the group had moved into the smattering of comfy furniture surrounding it. They each brought over a box, threw themselves into a cushioned armchair, and got to work looking through the files. The work was slow, and tedious, and made worse by their potential impending doom. Like asking a man to check every nail in a gallows before he’s hung from it. The work’s only joy was that it allowed them to be as nosy and judgmental as they liked, which only seemed fair given the circumstances. They scoffed at funny names, and made wild accusations about who was having affairs with whom. As the work got more serious they separated the files by those who fit the magical profile (lightning and teleporting), those who fit the physical description (old man with beard), and those who had no alibi for all the nights in question. There were no overlaps.

After a bit of discussion, they realized that some magical objects exist that mimic certain magics. Des posited that the murderer could have used a lightning rod, so they made a pile of teleporters. It was during this exercise that Hala realized similar objects exist that can teleport people, so they made a pile of storm mages. It was only then that Yu remembered that appearance-altering potions exist, although they were rare. It was at this point the group collectively threw their files to the ground. The resulting pile was their most accurate suspect pool yet—every member of the Order. Defeated and annoyed, they lounged, awaiting their fate. Yu, determined to continue their reading, got up and perused the library’s contents. Within minutes they had returned with an armful of books. Yu threw one down on a table close to Mal. It was thick and black and dusty. As Mal picked it up, the book stared back at him through the eyes of a silver skull engraved on its cover.

“In case we run into any more of your pals,” Yu said, a small smile broaching their lips, as if taunting Mal.

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” Mal said, putting the book down. He felt as though it was still staring at him from the table.

“Why not?” Hala said, sitting up in her chair.

“It’s not— It’s just— It’s evil. Nothing good can come from me learning more of it.” For some reason Mal felt embarrassed admitting this. Flashes of his parents’ faces struck his mind. Tensing and contorting. He shuddered.

“I can see that,” Hala said.

“What?” Yu said. “It’s not evil, it’s just magic. Magic is what magic is.”

“And that is?” Hala said, awaiting a response with a smile.

“A tool,” Yu said. “It’s what people do with it that’s evil.”

“But all tools aren’t created equal,” Des said, now leaning forward in her chair. “Take guns. They aren’t inherently evil, they aren’t forged in Mount Doom, but their only function is to kill. There’s a reason we have laws against them here. A tool has a purpose and you can’t just pretend it doesn’t.”