Chaos Magic

By Janet Neilson

Meet Rachel, Carl, Annette, Emma and Mike. To the world at large they're a temp secretary, an investment banker, a nightclub DJ, a doctor and a freelance photographer, sharing a South London house. But their world is larger than most people's, and they're more than what they seem. Together, what they are is the Headquarters for the Investigation of Paranormal Phenomena and Interdimensional Entities, keeping the supernatural elements that live among London's mortals from exposing themselves to discovery, lest the more militant supernatural orders step in with a purge. When London's magically inclined elements start causing chaos throughout the city, it's down to HIPPIE to figure out why before people start dying. (And yes, they are aware that they have an acronym problem.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781326539962

Book preview

Chaos Magic

CHAOS MAGIC

By Janet Neilson

January 2009 - revised March 2018

Copyright © 2009 by Janet Neilson

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First printing: 2009

ISBN 978-1-326-53996-2

[e-mail]

CHAPTER ONE

The staff kitchen at Lindstrom-Barr was generally a bit of a zoo at half past two in the afternoon. After a half-hour of dealing with the post-lunch rush, the secretaries were always in dire need of a fifteen minute coffee and gossip break. The subject of the moment for two of the senior management secretaries was, unusually, the relatively new temporary secretary that had been hired to take over from the marketing director's PA during her month-long holiday to Uganda.

Little Miss Management's Pet left early today, said Christine, the Chief Executive Officer's PA, stirring at her tea.

The Human Resources Director's PA, stirring honey into another one of her foul herbal stress alleviation brews, raised an eyebrow. "The speccy little mouse in the cardie? You're joking. How'd Bernard take that?"

"Stupid thing is he encouraged it, sighed Christine, casting a dubious eye at her associate's so- called tea. Something about how, since she works so hard, a half-day on a Friday is her due, or something. Pity's sake, he even signed off on a full week even though she didn't do all her hours."

Amanda, PA for the finance director, nearly choked on her coffee when she heard that. "You just know Arthur's going to throw a fit if he finds out. Marketing budget's always a nightmare. And who's he going to take it out on? Muggins here, that's who. Thanks, Miss Hutton."

Well, it's not as though she doesn't work hard, was the comment from the reasonably mild-mannered Human Resources PA. She came highly recommended by her agency, and there've been no complaints about her. Bernard can't say enough nice things about her, and Ade had actually better watch her back – Bernard was talking about how maybe a change is as good as a rest and how a bit of a staff reshuffle might help his department.

Amanda shook her head. "It'd never fly, Heather. Finance would never agree the severance package. What I want to know is where Miss Management's Pet is going. It's not as if it's likely to be a salon appointment, is it?"

"Or a mini-break with a someone special. Honestly, how much social life can she have? She never talks about hobbies or blokes or telly or--"

Lesley, who worked in Occupational Health, broke in at that point with, "Maybe she's just reticent and not interested in sharing her life with a bunch of people who are going to treat it like an episode of Coronation Street, hmm? Now come on, you lot; surely there's better things to talk about. Or if not, maybe you have some work to do?"

The managerial secretaries grumbled but headed to their respective offices, and quite soon put the temporary secretary Rachel Hutton out of their minds. After all, it wasn't as if the cardigan -clad darling of the management set was pretty enough or interesting enough to merit much coffee break talk when there were other things to talk about and work to be done. They simply assumed she had a doctor's appointment and left it at that.

***

While this conversation was taking place, Rachel Hutton, clad in the advertised blue cardigan, high-necked white blouse and conservative ankle-length black skirt that made her a figure of very little notice in the power-suited environs of Lindstrom-Barr, was paying the bill for a fortifying panini and cappuccino. This particular monthly errand was not something she generally looked forward to, and lunch was a good way to stall. Still, tardiness would do her no favours, so after leaving a modest but adequate tip, she left the Holborn coffee shop and made her brisk and bustling way towards Covent Garden.

Her final destination was a small door, adorned with chipped blue paint, a lion's head door knocker and the number 103 despite the two flanking doors being 240 and 244 (a vintage clothing store and a bead shop, respectively). It was locked, but a bit of work with an old-fashioned bronze key took care of that. Anyone who happened to wander onto that unremarked side street and saw her go into that door was almost immediately given the impression that she had wandered into the bead shop, then forgot about her entirely. While this is not an uncommon phenomenon in large cities, there was something more to it than human obliviousness in this case. The blue door simply did not want to be seen, and so wasn't, and neither was anyone who entered it. There are a multitude of spots just like this in London, and to Rachel, one of the few who could see them as they really were, they were the only bits of the city that really mattered.

The blue door opened onto a set of narrow stone steps. By their russet colour, they would have been taken for bricks, but they were of a far finer grain and held a sheen rather like marble. Rachel knew they were ancient – she'd heard all the stories by now, and even if she hadn't, the stairwell spoke to her in an occasionally disconcerting way. All the same, they showed no signs of erosion. Most of the feet that used these stairs were too light and fine to do anything as mundane as cause wear and tear on the things they touched. Besides, the Old Folk built things to last, out of necessity. The walls, by contrast, were pebbled and quite pale, as if papered with the skin of a large albino reptile, though the occasional mica sparkle belied that first impression. The light source for the stairwell was indeterminate – it might have been coming from the walls, or the floor, or simply the air, but it was a warm and golden thing, inviting and daunting in equal measure. Still, Rachel was used to this place by now, and made her way down the stairwell with a deferential sort of tread. It was a long way down, or at least seemed that way, but past the blue door, and for the people who dwelled there, time had little enough meaning. Which made these trips a little aggravating, but it couldn't be helped. There were some requirements to being Rachel that she couldn't avoid or escape.

The stairs opened out onto a vast marble-columned antechamber. More of that golden light streamed down from the ceiling, and that and the airy feel of the place gave the impression of a courtyard in a castle on a high hill from a fairy tale rather than a place accessed by descending a nearly interminable flight of stairs. Most people would have been confused, but Rachel had been here before. She simply crossed the antechamber, stopped in front of the large mahogany double doors she found there, and addressed the helmed, armoured guardsmen who had crossed their pikes before the doors at her approach. Rachel Hutton, Emissary of the Mortal Guardians of the Way, to attend an audience requested by the Lord and Lady of Smoke, of the High Houses. By this act shall you know me. With that, she closed her eyes, concentrated and sent to both guards.

Sending was a draining sort of thing, particularly when dealing with a mind other than that of a standard mortal. However, she was well-trained at this sort of sending, at least with this sort of mind as her target, and as such it was little more than a parlour trick to her by now. The sending consisted predominantly of the equivalent of name, rank and serial number – a basic impression of who she was on the surface, and her abilities, and her intent. This sort of sending allowed for little in the way of prevarication, and by use of her not precisely humble mental talents, she was giving up her one advantage, which was meant to serve as an indication that she did not require this advantage and therefore came in peace. It also contained part of the mind-cast used to remind her of the monthly audience; the equivalent of showing the guards her engraved invitation.

The pikes parted. The doors opened. Rachel passed through.

The throne room past the doors was no less impressive and ornate than the antechamber through which Rachel had accessed it. Its colour scheme was charcoal grey and silver, with an occasional top note of burgundy. There was an abundance of velvet and marble, and Rachel kept to the long runner of dark grey embroidered carpet on the floor, knowing the din her sensible low-heeled shoes would make on the marble flooring. Being watched by so many vaguely alien eyes, accustomed to them or not, makes one infinitely cautious about drawing even more attention to oneself. She stepped forward and, upon reaching the marble dais at the far end of the room, she curtsied deeply. Lord and Lady of Smoke, of the High Houses, the Mortal Guardians of the Way send greetings.

The Lord and Lady of Smoke were clad in light grey velvet edged in silver. Both were tall, and sat straight-backed and proud in thrones of shining silvery wood. Their hair was white, though their features were not those of the elderly. Their features were, in fact, very barely human

– angular faces of unearthly beauty, with the long, delicately pointed ears a testament to their breed. They watched Rachel's curtsey with eyes seemingly made of swirling smoke, and nodded in apparent satisfaction, though their faces remained impassive. The Lady spoke, then: Miss Hutton, our Court is, for this audience, open to you. We offer you the boon of our hospitality, and safe passage during your stay. Be welcome to Smog Hall.

The Lord, who seemed rather colder and less hospitable, spoke next. What news from the mortal, Miss Hutton? And your ... group of Guardians? What little facial expression he showed as he spoke told of slight disdain. The Lord of Smoke was not particularly fond of what he considered mercenaries, and since Rachel and her 'group' worked for pay much of the time, she only barely rated respect.

We fare well enough, Milord, said Rachel, wearing her best 'respectful professional' expression. There was a mild infestation of Devourers in Camberwell last week, but it was more or less taken care of.

The Lord raised an eyebrow. More, or less, Miss Hutton? Please choose one.

More, really; two local dogs were taken before the Devourers were disposed of, but we moved their corpses to an abandoned lot in the area and they were thought to have either killed each other or to have been set upon by cruel hooligans.

And they believed this, the mortals?

They came up with the story themselves, Milord, was Rachel's wry reply. One underestimates a mortal teenager's capacity for cruelty at one's peril.

So noted, said the Lady. What of the Down Street Underdwellers? Have they continued their perfidy against the mortal realm?

Not so far. Their altercation with the scion Carl Tanner in July rather put them off trying to invade.

The Lady smiled. Ah, yes. Our bards still sing of the nearly apocalyptic Battle of the Grenadier. Your scion, he is a master at the combative arts.

Rachel, privately thinking that the Battle of the Grenadier was a far loftier title than a Wilton Row pub brawl truly deserved, nodded. I shall pass along your compliments, Milady.

The Lord spoke up again, raising an eyebrow. So all has been more or less quiet amongst the mortals, then? I believe the term you would use is ... business as usual?

Rachel nodded. It is as it has ever been, Milord. The occasional overzealous vampire, a spellcaster's project gone wrong a time or three, and of course full moon, but nothing out of the ordinary. We do our duty--

And earn your pay, sneered the Lord of Smoke.

The Lady put a forbidding hand on the Lord's arm and then turned to Rachel, who looked a bit concerned as she asked, Should it be otherwise?

Seek that answer for yourself, Miss Hutton, said the Lady. You are gifted with the Sight. We sincerely hope that there is not a thing to know, but ... it might be wise to seek, regardless.

Growing more anxious about matters by the minute, Rachel took a breath and said, By your leave, Milord and Lady ... I would seek here. It is easier, at times, to See outside of mortal walls.

It is ever thus, agreed the Lady. You have our leave.

As little fun as it was to attempt this sort of thing with an audience, Rachel immediately buckled down and cleared her mind as much as possible. Opening her mind to whatever bit of the future was trying to get people's attention was generally unpleasant, and one of the many parts of her talents she despised at times. Still, it was a necessary and sometimes useful thing, no matter how much it hurt to try. So when she was adequately centred, she closed her two outward eyes and focused, opening the eye within.

Two seconds later, she was screaming.

***

Some miles south and a world away about three hours later, in a house on Nightingale Road near to Tooting, life as usual was going on for those known as the Mortal Guardians of the Way.

"EMMA! Get this fuckin' cat off my shin!"

Wrrrowwrrll... The oversized Maine Coon currently attached to Carl's leg ignored the bellowing and went on attempting to climb Carl Tanner as though he were an angry tree. The muscular blond hobbled over to the chaise longue in the entry hall and sat down on it heavily, glaring at the cat in a manner that promised eventual pain.

Carl, you're the strongest man I know. Emma, a tallish, willowy woman with long black hair, was settled on the stairs with a laundry basket at her side, watching the early evening's entertainment with every appearance of quasi- neutral amusement. Surely you can pry Frith off your trousers all by yourself.

Carl immediately fired the glare in Emma's direction. "Not without fuckin' ruining a really damn good set of trousers, Ems. Now get your arse down here and reason with this bastard, would you?"

He's not even my cat, murmured Emma with a sigh, then slid the laundry basket over to clear a space at her side, which she patted gently. Hey, Frith; come here and say hello, would you?

Frith obeyed immediately. No one was ever sure whether Emma Thorne's way with animals was a supernatural phenomenon or simply one of those strictly mundane but unusual things people are born with or develop at times, but frankly, no one much cared, particularly when it was useful. The extent of Carl's grumble was, "Goddamn cat never fuckin' listens to me when I do that..."

You just don't know how to talk to him, was Emma's reply as she scritched the now-purring Frith behind the ears. He's just a big old softie, really.

"You think bloody Cerberus is a big old fuckin' softie, Carl pointed out, still alternately amused and terrified at the memory of the last Imbolc party his father had invited him and his friends to, during which Emma had had the three-headed guardian of Hades sitting up, begging and playing dead. Partying with deities from an assortment of pantheons was both a plus and a problem with the whole 'being the son of a god' business. He decided that a hasty change in subject was preferable to dwelling on the memory of that Imbolc party and put his foot up on the coffee table to better inspect the claw marks in his suit trousers. So where's the fuckin' shutterbug, anyway? It's his gods-damned cat; shouldn't he be playing bloody cat-wrangler or some similar shite?"

Upstairs developing the shots from the Royal London job last week. Rachel's still over at Smog Hall – the Fae must be grilling her harder than usual this month, Emma went on, knowing Carl's deeply ingrained need for a situation report every time he came home. And Annette's in Camden, shopping.

Eye of newt? Toe of dog? Carl had a more or less healthy disdain for Annette's magical crafting, no matter how many times it had saved his life over the years.

Emma, now giving Frith tummy rubs, let out an amused snort. Platform boots and hair dye.

Carl groaned. Oh shite; what colour will the fuckin' upstairs lav be this week?

I heard something about fluorescent orange.

"Fuckin' wonderful." Carl shook his head and then just lounged on the chaise longue for a moment, using a foot to poke at the magazines there (Fortean Times, the British Medical Journal, Pentacle, New Scientist, Maxim and, just recently, Professional Photographer). So whose turn is it to do dinner on Rachel's gods-damned rota, anyway?

If you have to ask, Emma pointed out, grinning, It's probably you.

Shite. Okay. Anyone fancy curry? When Emma threw a rolled-up ball of socks at his head, Carl just laughed and said, "Come on, you silly bitch, you know I can't cook for shite!"

Being paid an obscene amount of money should not exempt you from the rota, Emma pointed out, digging around in her laundry basket for more ammunition that did not involve throwing her knickers at him.

Carl just laughed harder. Hey, it's a fuckload of hard work, is ordering curry. Wrangling the orders out of you bunch of buggers, the ringing up, the endless fuckin' waiting...

The front door opened and Rachel staggered in. The normally composed young woman was pale, dishevelled and wide-eyed. The phrase 'she looked as though she'd seen a ghost' didn't really apply to the residents of two-twenty Nightingale Road, who dealt with ghosts better than most, but it would have had any of them been remotely normal. Emma and Carl simply stared; none of them had seen Rachel quite like this in some time. Call the others, she said, voice trembling a bit. Get Mike down here and get Annette home from whatever ramble she's on. House meeting as soon as possible. Carl, you're on dinner – order us Chinese or something, would you? I'm going to go get changed. With that, she brushed past Emma and made her way up the stairs. A moment later, the door to her room slammed.

Emma and Carl shared a look.

Curry?

Stick with the Chinese. Let's keep to the letter of the Command From On High. I'll ring Annette.

Carl sighed and went to hunt for the Chinese takeaway menu. Fuckin' HIPPIE, he murmured as he went.

***

The Headquarters for the Investigation of Paranormal Phenomena and Inter-dimensional Entities was the public face of the quintet's guardianship of the Way ... or at least, as public as they could get, given the nature of their duties. Their main remit was to keep the plethora of paranormal phenomena under some kind of control, keep it out of sight of the mortal world and, incidentally, keep the world from going completely to hell because of it. The ambition sounded lofty, and in a way it was, but the acronym problem known as HIPPIE mostly looked at their sworn duty as a cross between a research facility, a pest extermination service and a Mafia protection racket. Little business cards stuck up all over London phone boxes gave their sworn creed - Here to help. Won't call you a lunatic - and when called by paying clients, the HIPPIE brigade turned up in force to kill, banish or negotiate with the problem to the best of their abilities, with half their fee payable in advance. In short, they did their jobs for pay and kicks, rather than for honour and glory. Small wonder the Fae contingent of London didn't think much of them. Still, they didn't simply turn a blind eye to things going on in their jurisdiction that they didn't stand to be paid for, so the complaints received weren't too many, and no one from that sector was out to kill them this year. Small mercies.

A half-hour or so after Rachel arrived home, the residents of the house on Nightingale Road, known amongst themselves as HIPPIE Home Base, were settled in the eclectically decorated lounge, dividing out Chinese dishes from the local takeaway place and settling in for what stood to be a long night of discussions. They all knew what it meant when Rachel came in rattled – she'd seen something, or she'd

Seen something. Either way, it boded ill.

So what's the fuckin' story, Rache? Carl, subtle as a brick through a plate glass window, asked this around a mouthful of spring roll, concerned eyes belying the brisk and nearly callous demeanour. Great Old Ones coming to eat our fuckin' heads again?

"You are never, like, going to let the thing at South Bank Uni go, are you, Carl? This from Annette Dodd, who had not yet availed herself of her fluorescent orange hair dye and was currently sporting faded green locks with about an inch of platinum blonde roots on show. I mean, it's not really anyone's fault that, like, the maths faculty got their brains smooshed or whatever and ended up going, like, totally non-Euclidian, you know?"

You, Annette, are far too forgiving, said Emma, dishing up some egg fried rice for herself. They're supposed to be studying Pythagoras, not Richard Upton Pickman.

"I don't know what it is, admitted Rachel, getting matters back on track. Except, potentially and eventually, the end of the world as we know it."

It was the casual, off-handed nature of the announcement that threw everyone, rather than the announcement itself. That fact said as much about the power of Rachel's near-permanent professional demeanour as it did about the audience, who found themselves facing Armageddon on a basis that would have had a theoretician wetting himself and whimpering. So for a moment, there was silence that no one really wanted to break – some questions one doesn't even want to ask, much less have answered.

So of course it was Mike Algernon, a short, thin, slightly sallow young man with eyes too perfectly blue to be anything but coloured contact lenses and a camera perpetually hung around his neck, who asked the first question on the minds of everyone in the room: So ... do we have a potential date for this end of the world thing? I kind of want to try to fix it before then, I think. Or at least have some time to work on my Things I Want To Do Before I Die list.

Okay, let's calm right the hell down, said Carl, though no one had specifically panicked yet. "Look, let's get a little more fuckin' detail on this 'potentially and eventually' shite, okay? 'Cos I'm kind of wondering about that first."

Rachel shook her head and reached for the chow mein. Look, precognition is not an exact science however you look at it. I don't know exactly what's going to happen – it was all a blur at the time, and I don't really expect that dwelling on it is going to give me that much more in the way of detail. Something is moving behind the scenes, stirring things up in a way that I don't much understand. If it keeps on the way it's going, it will ... not destroy the world, exactly, but upset the balance. Violate the Way. Which means--

Which means supernatural havoc all over the city, spreading outwards, until the world's a mess. Emma sighed. Well, I suppose we were due for a serious altercation. It can't all be skitter critters and demonic geometry.

So ... like ... we have no real idea of ... I dunno ... when all this is going to go down, or from which quarter? Annette looked completely bewildered, which suited her little-girl face quite well. "Man, that, like, sucks."

I'm not gonna fuckin' sit here and watch the world go to shite, Rachel, Carl snarled. "I mean, damn, that's not what we bloody well do, you know? Can we do any fuckin' thing?"

Rachel looked around the room at each of them, worry writ large on her features, and then said, I only got one bit of advice that I can really pick out of the din, I'm afraid. It's not much, but it's what we have to work with.

Mike, the newest member of HIPPIE and the only true-blue, run of the mill mortal of the bunch, was still something of a stranger to the entire Guardianship of the Way thing. So when things got bad, he got quieter, except when it came to asking the pertinent but occasionally stupid-seeming questions. What was it?

Rachel paused, perhaps realising how ridiculous her own advice would sound when spoken aloud, and then said