Page 8 of Any More Questions for the Corpse?

You know I do, Mal thought, begrudgingly taking the card and putting it in his pocket.

“I have another class in here now, y’know,” Mr. Russell said from behind them. Clearly annoyed that he was the only one not getting to be a consultant.

“We’ll be off now. Apologies,” Des said, finally removing herself from the door.

Mal reluctantly followed as they set off through the old institution hallways of Dunwich University. They were all of roughly the same age, but somehow being a cop made Des seem older in Mal’s eyes. Des and Hala chatted as they walked. Des talked about joining the police through a detective’s fast track that involved a part-time divination degree, and Hala talked about how she was one of only three people on her course and how off-putting she found the other two. Mal enjoyed listening to them talk, mainly because the conversation had drifted away from him.

They walked out onto the campus grounds. Mal’s building was relatively modern as far as the campus was concerned. Most of the campus consisted of old Gothic buildings that looked like miniature castles. Each housed a vague category of magic. There were Practical Magics like teleportation, telekinesis, and augmentation. There were Artistic Magics like audiomancy, chromamancy, and graphomancy. But the domain with the most impressive buildings were the Scientific Magics. Natural magic, closest to biology, was split into so many different houses that it took up nearly a quarter of the campus. You could always catch a glimpse of some odd bestial transformation when you walked past. Transmutors, closest to chemistry, had a large, intricate building made of the strangest materials, owing to their ability to change the elemental composition of matter. Mal once saw a transmutation student turn water into wine on a dare. This school was not to be confused with transfiguration, or transformational magic, which was considered closer to drama, mostly because the transformations were more complex—say a person into a chair—but these transformations were always temporary.

Mal’s technomancy was grouped under Elemental Magics, as technically, energy manipulation was a category of storm mage. The two fields were completely different and, as far as he knew, had different souls of magic governing them, but the association had always bugged Mal. Storm mages were by and large all flashy show-offs. He thought it must be a prerequisite to study the thing.

After their nice walk through the campus, they arrived at Des’s car. Hala got in the front, causing Mal to feel like the child of the group as he got into the back. He thought about how, under any other circumstances, a road trip would be fun. Who wouldn’t enjoy the attention? But now he was trapped in a car with two people insistent on discovering his secrets. Mal didn’t want to think about what the Order did to those who divulged their secrets. Probably the same thing they did to necromancers who didn’t join them.

“Where are we heading?” Mal asked as they left campus.

“We’re heading to Avalon,” Des said. “We’re going to interview one of the most powerful wizards alive.”

4We’re Off to See the Wizard

Avalon was the coziest place Mal had ever seen. Trapped between unmapped Welsh valleys and a roaring sea with no name, it was green, and lush, and beautiful. You would be hard-pressed to call it a city; it was closer to a village, but a large, coastal village. Every building was at most two stories tall, and they splayed and splashed the landscape on thin cobbled roads. There were no high streets or built-up shopping centers, just little cobbled streets with little quiet shops. One minute they’d been in a busy portal station queue, among Dunwich’s hustle and bustle, and the next they were staring out at a gorgeous beach under murky skies. It was still Wales, after all; even their magical cities experienced the joy of Welsh rain. At the far side of the village was a domed, grassy peak with a small stone tower atop. It looked as though it should be attached to a grand castle but somehow the rest of it had gotten lost and now all that remained was this singular tower. Mal did not complain when Des told them their destination was that tower, though he thought about complaining when he learned that the local portsmith was on break. Light conversation filled their lungs as they strode along the stony paths. Wind nipped at the edges of their faces, and the smell of the countryside calmed Mal’s worries.

At last, they mounted the top of the grassy peak and came upon the lone tower. Des gave a terse policewoman’s knock on the front door, and Hala and Mal waited in quiet anticipation of what notorious and powerful wizard would greet them. A young, nervous woman answered. The sight of police at the door was sure to make anyone nervous. Des said they were here to speak to Taran, and the woman obliged, opening the door and welcoming them in. They immediately went down a flight of stairs, into the earth, but arrived at a luxurious greeting hall on the second floor. Vast windows gave them views of the surrounding landscape; it was as if they’d somehow arrived at the top floor of the tower. The woman gestured for them to follow, and follow they did.

They arrived in a cluttered little office. An expensive-looking rug covered the floor, and a small desk sat facing an expansive view of the ocean. The walls had white wooden panels up to their waists and were painted green on their top half. They were holding shelves covered in impossible knickknacks from across the globe. Several stuffed heads of creatures Mal had never seen. A plant that grew in a circle, forming a wreath. Statues of various magical souls that Mal didn’t recognize. A jar with a storm inside, which Mal recognized from his run-ins with storm mages; it was a technique they used to practice controlled lightning. A twisted wooden staff sat pride of place over a mantle, next to various wands and crystals. And, as if part of the room itself, sat a small, withered man in a comfortable chair, staring out to sea.

Mal expected it to be some kind of trick, that he would erupt sprightlily from the chair to greet them, but this was not the case. The young woman walked them in and the old man swiveled around in his chair. He gestured to the rug for them to sit, and as he did three wooden chairs popped in out of thin air. He chuckled to himself in a way that said I’ve still got it, and they all sat down. He smiled and welcomed them and the young woman left, if hesitantly.

“Can I get your full name for the record please, sir,” Des said, in a softer voice than Mal had expected from her.

“Taran Merlin Ambrosius,” the old man said. Hala and Mal realized in tandem that they were sitting down with a great descendant of the Merlin. Of magical history fame and of non-magical folklore fame. Mal noted how much the old man did in fact look like Merlin. With long white hair and a long white beard, and an old, crooked nose poking out from under his glasses and over his moustache. There were many statues of the Merlin across Britain, a couple Mal had seen in person; the resemblance was uncanny. This gave Mal pause, because someone who looked just like Merlin was going around murdering people.

“Date of birth,” Des said.

“July 13, 1826,” Taran said. Des jotted this down in her notepad. 1826? Mal thought. The man was just shy of two hundred years old.

“Could you tell me your whereabouts four nights ago at about eight PM?” As Des spoke, the young woman re-entered.

“He was here, with me,” the woman said, coming to stand beside Taran. “Why do you wish to know?”

“Because someone matching his description was seen in the commission of a crime.”

“Someone said they saw Taran?” the woman said, appearing outraged.

“What’s your name, ma’am?” Des said, with an even, but harder, tone.

“Elaine, Elaine Fideline,” the woman said. “I’m Taran’s nurse.”

“Good,” Des said. Mal saw that Des was scrawling everything down incessantly. Mal had started recording the interview in his mind the second he heard the name Merlin, just in case he wanted to experience this strange encounter again. Mal watched Taran as the two talked. He was calm and didn’t seem to mind listening contentedly, even as Elaine spoke for him.

“Can anyone else confirm you were both home?” Des said.

“No, it was just us.” Elaine said, “you don’t seriously think Taran did anything wrong, do you?”

“I’m just crossing all the t’s, ma’am. A man matching Merlin’s description was witnessed committing a crime. I have a few more dates I would like to verify, if that’s okay with you both?” Des listed off the times and dates of the first three murders before Murray. All within the previous month. Each night Taran was at home with Elaine, just the pair of them. Mal wondered how Walters had smoothed over the “witnesses” being the very victims who had died. Maybe he claimed a mind reader read the victims’ last thoughts. Maybe he had members of the Order pretend to be witnesses. Who knew? Well, Des certainly didn’t.

“That’s all as expected. Do you have any enemies? Can you think of anyone who would want to damage your reputation?” Des said. Elaine’s demeanor calmed at this. The pair racked their brains for a moment.

“Well,” Taran said, his voice calm and strong, “I’ve had a few tussles in my day. Perhaps some old enemy has come back. There are always a few who get away. Let’s see, there’s Noe—they were a shapeshifter from way back, we could never track them down. Leptoptilos, a dragon mage that flew off after one of our bouts. Oh, oh, find Knare, hideously powerful storm mage. Mazino Knare. Fun fact about him, he was also a necromancer.” The whole room burst into laughter. Mal’s eyes grew wide as he forced himself to play along.