Page 2

Claude

Dear Mr Stinkhorn,

We hope you’ll forgive this most unorthodox method of contacting you, but we believe the phone number we have on file is wrong. Our names are Willow and Oggy, and we are the custodians of Stinkhorn Manor.

We realise this isn’t the nicest way to do things, but time is of the essence, and we are shit out of luck. We apologise that you will hear this from us. Your father, Angus Stinkhorn, is a goner has perished during an expedition to the northernmost tip of the Mythic Realms.

By decree, as was written in your father’s will, Stinkhorn Manor and all his worldly possessions (of which there are MANY) will pass into the hands of his eldest only child.

We have called Mr Stinkhorn’s (your father’s) solicitors and arranged an urgent appointment for you in their Remy branch at 9:30a.m. on Tuesday. Address overleaf.

There is a decent chance this letter might not reach you until Tuesday. If that is the case, you must make haste, and also, whoopsie our sincerest apologies.

Yours,

W&O

PS there is something we need to tell you about Stink nvm. I am informed there are more appropriate ways to do this, and you will likely find out everything in due course.

PPS Part of Stinkhorn Manor is being used as a B&B. You must decide what will become of this, and its guests. Do NOT let the guests sway you one way or another, especially Mrs Ziegler. In fact, best to stay away from Mrs Ziegler altogether.

I read the letter again on the steps of Cope and Gryphon Solicitors, and then once more while waiting in the foyer, and I still couldn’t wrap my brain around it. I half expected the human receptionist, a fair-haired man who unhelpfully wore no name tag, to laugh in my face when I approached his desk a little after nine. But he appeared as flummoxed as I was, more so perhaps, blinking up at me as though I were a dead celebrity’s holograph singing “Happy Birthday” to him. Buck naked.

He picked up his phone, pressed a button, and spoke into the receiver. “Elektra, he’s here. Mr Stinkhorn’s here.” A pause. “I know!” Another pause. “Right?!” The receptionist offered me a dorky, thick-cheeked smile. “Sure. Okay. No problem.” He turned to me. “Sorry, sir. We weren’t convinced anybody would turn up today. But good news, you’ve just won me and Elektra fifty silvers. Would you take a seat over there? She’s not... ready for you yet.” He put on a stage whisper. I had no idea why. We were the only two people in the foyer. “She’s still at the gym. Can I get you a coffee? Tea?”

It took a good five seconds for the words to align in my thoughts. “Tea. Milk. Lots of milk. No sugar. Please,” I added as an afterthought. Always forgot those pesky pleases.

“Certainly.” He bumbled off, leaving me in the dark, impersonal, slightly outdated and kind of musty wood-panelled waiting area of Cope and Gryphon. I liked it.

Twenty minutes passed. I left my tea undrunk because long-life milk, gag, and I stared at the ticking clock above the water fountain, trying not to remember the feel of Sonny’s lanky body squished against mine. Or the strange mossy scent of him in my nostrils. Or the fact that I’d been right, and all along he’d been waiting for his moment to thieve from me. My Employee of the Decade gold-mushroom cufflink. My favourite cufflinks.

Well, he had another think coming if he expected to catch my train tomorrow morning and not receive a confrontation. We shroom fae might be known for our taciturnity, but that didn’t make us afraid of conflict. I was going to give him such a dressing down. Nobody steals from me and acts so blasé about it. Maybe I would perform a citizen’s arrest. Hold his arms behind his back, pin him to the carriage wall until we reached station security.

“Mr Stinkhorn? Elektra’s ready for you now. Let me take you through,” said the human receptionist, and I opened my eyes.

When did I close them?

He led me down a wide corridor, up a short set of stairs, and knocked loudly on an open, grand mahogany door.

“Thank you, Jack,” said Elektra, getting to her feet.

Turned out, Elektra was an orc. Six-nine, six-ten, green skin, tusks, muscles from here to the U-station. I tried not to let my surprise register on my features. Not that I had anything against orcs. They were largely a hardworking, loyal, and diligent species—all things I greatly admired. My surprise, however, stemmed from Elektra’s attire, because she wasn’t wearing a suit, as one might expect in such formal settings. She wasn’t even wearing a shirt. Instead, she wore a spandex tank top and cycling shorts, and I saw every line of her supermassive honed body.

I smoothed my own tummy through the layers of my vest, shirt, and waistcoat. Yep, still squishy. Though, weren’t dad bods supposed to be all the rage these days?

“Elektra Roxburgh. Nice to meet you, Mr Stinkhorn.” She crossed the office in two strides and reached for my hand, and despite being only three quarters of a foot taller than me, her hand engulfed mine. “You’ll have to excuse the way I look. Came straight from the gym.” She turned to the receptionist, who still stood in the doorway. His mouth hung open, his eyes—bright and wide—flitted between Elektra and me. “Thank you, Jack,” she repeated.

“Right, yep,” Jack said, snapping into action. He grinned at us and almost tripped over his own feet in his haste to close the door behind himself.

“Take a seat, Mr Stinkhorn.” She pointed to a chair beside her desk, and I sat. I didn’t bother to remove my coat. “I’ll be honest with you, we were all very dubious as to whether anyone would show up today. Can I get you another drink?”

“Uh, no, thank you,” I said.

Elektra perched on the edge of the desk, making herself only marginally less massive. “We received a call last night. From Mr Cope himself. Senior partner here. Basically, Mr Cope explained that a good friend of his had passed away and—”

I held up my hand. Elektra stopped talking and raised a brow.

“Were you going to say something?” she asked after a few seconds of silence had passed.

No, I wasn’t. I needed to straighten things out inside my head. My father and Mr Cope had been friends? Close friends? What did that mean? If it meant anything at all. I hadn’t known the man well, but I’d always assumed my father was inherently the same as all shroom fae: largely friendless.

I shook my head. “I only required a moment to process the information. Continue. Please.”

She cleared her throat. “As I was saying, Mr Cope called to let us know Mr Stinkhorn had passed, and that we were to make arrangements for his son”—she gestured towards me, just to make sure we were both clear who my father’s son was—“to take up residence in his manor house as soon as possible. We don’t have any of the documents—the will, power of attorney, land boundaries, et cetera—here at this branch, unfortunately. They’ll be in our main office in Bordalis, but we’ll make sure they’re all forwarded wherever they’re needed. ”

“I’m sorry. Residence? No, that’s not... I won’t be taking up any residence. My plan is to head straight from here to the estate agent on the corner, and... Sorry, did you say you don’t have the documents? Not the deeds to this... property?”

Elektra walked around her desk and sat down in her chair. I got the distinct feeling she was buying herself more thinking time. “I’m afraid we have no documents. Mr Cope will get the deeds to you as quickly as he can, but you must remember, this isn’t generally how probates work. It takes time, Mr Stinkhorn, and this case is especially unique.”

“How so?”

Elektra’s skin flushed a darker green. “Ah, well, that is the thing.” She opened a drawer on her desk and plucked a small sheet of paper from somewhere near the very top. She handed it to me. “These are the notes Jack made last night. Sorry it’s crinkled. He was in the bath when he took the call, and the paper got a little damp. That’s everything we know. Jack says that’s all he could make out. Apparently the line wasn’t great and, well, Mr Cope can be rather... brusque.”

I nodded, squinted down, and attempted to untangle the wet spaghetti of scribbles before me.

Mr Core. No, obviously it didn’t say that.

Mr Cope.

Mr Stinkhorn dead. “Dead” underlined three times.

Expedition-related accident.

Decapitated. Yeesh, did I need to know that?

Son inherits EVERYTHING.

Stinkhorn Manor.

Multiple problems.

No cash, no known bank accounts.

Residence must be taken up IMMEDIATELY. “Immediately” underlined thirteen times.

Ancient fae magic.

Dire consequences.

Make appointment for son tomorrow, breakfast time.

Son does not know.

My mouth began leaking words before my brain could think them through. “What the heck does all this mean? Multiple problems? I’ve inherited multiple problems? Explain it.”

Elektra laughed and folded her huge arms over the leather desktop protector. “Now you understand why we didn’t expect anyone to turn up.”

“But what does it mean?”

“I’m sorry, Mr Stinkhorn. You know as much as I do. Perhaps more if your father ever mentioned anything—”

“He did not.”

She stood again, walked around to my side of the desk, and perched her solid-looking backside on the wood. “My advice would be to head home, pack a few supplies—say, a fortnight’s worth—and go to Stinkhorn Manor. I will arrange for Mr Cope to pay you a visit with all the necessary paperwork. Or, if not Mr Cope, another of our colleagues. I must admit, I’m rather curious myself. Perhaps it’ll be me.”

I scowled at her. She pursed her lips together to hide her smile.

“I have work. Do you expect me to simply take two weeks off?” I tried to sound indignant but I actually had a staggering number of accrued annual-leave days I could dip into if worse came to worst.

She shrugged. “Until I have more information, that is all I can advise. I would like to highlight the bit at the bottom that very ominously states, ‘dire consequences .’ But it’s your property now, and therefore, entirely your call.”

I blew out a breath. Besides work, I had no prior commitments that required me to stay in Remy for any reason. But I didn’t want the stress or hassle something labelled “multiple problems” and “dire consequences” could bring.

Yet what did I have to lose? I guessed nothing. I’d inherited a house—which I planned on selling, anyway—and the sooner I got the deeds, or probate, or whatever it was I needed, the sooner I could sell up and move on. Use the cash to pay off the mortgage on my basement flat in Remy. Purchase a bigger telly. Maybe go to the fancy tea shop just off Bordalis Road and buy me some of that elite chai blend I’d been dreaming about since the store opened two decades ago.

“Okay, I’ll visit Stinkhorn Manor and meet with your colleague. But I will only be taking one week’s worth of supplies. I do not plan to stay any longer.”

“Great,” said Elektra. Her wide smile stretched over her tusks. “I’ll call the Bordalis office now.” She stood again. “There is just one more thing you should be aware of, Mr Stinkhorn.”

“What’s that?” I asked, smothering the urge to roll my eyes.

Elektra made a circular motion with her hand, inviting me to flip the piece of paper over.

I did. At the bottom, in the same floppy-pasta scrawl as the previous side, it said—

“The house is magic?!” I hadn’t meant to read that aloud.

“Your thumb is covering the rest,” Elektra said, and for the first time since arriving, she seemed somehow much smaller.

I moved my thumb. This time, I didn’t stop my eye roll. “Oh, for goodness sake!”

The house is magic, and it’s a pain in the ass.