Page 24

Chapter

Sixteen

I left the dining hall far more quickly than I’d entered it. I might not know where Fetch Jackson was but now I knew what to look for – or rather what to smell for. My stomach grumbled. Bring on the chicken chow mein.

The witches’ offices were on the third floor where the magical security would be far stronger, but I refused to believe I couldn’t access them. I’d come this far; I couldn’t give up now.

I returned to the main landing and headed for the next set of stairs.

Shit: a trio of witches was descending and there was no way I could avoid them.

It was too late to hide, so I’d have to play cat and brazen it out.

I swallowed hard and started to climb. Nothing to see here , I projected.

Just a little cat out for a walk in the scary witches’ council headquarters. Miaow .

It was the young witch in the middle who spotted me first. ‘Hello, kitty!’

Her companions turned. ‘What’s that moggy doing here?’ the one on the left asked suspiciously. Damn it: she clearly possessed several thousand more brain cells than the other witches I’d encountered so far .

‘I’m allergic to fucking cats,’ complained the male witch on the right.

Excellent. I swerved and headed straight for his ankles.

‘Shit!’ he exploded, jumping backwards.

I couldn’t let him get away that easily.

I leapt upwards and wrapped myself around his lower legs, purring loudly.

He kicked out, but I was canny and jumped up another step to avoid his foot.

Then, because he’d annoyed me, I launched myself upwards and dug my claws into the fabric of his cloak so I could scramble onto his shoulder.

‘Get off!’ he shrieked. ‘Get off me!’

His two companions were laughing hysterically. ‘It’s … just … a … cat … James!’ said the first one.

I rubbed my head against his ear. He howled as if I’d bitten him and started to hop from foot to foot.

‘Get it off me! Get it fucking off me!’ He reached up to grab me.

Sensing that this time he’d succeed, I extended my claws and scraped them against the soft flesh of his cheek, then I bounded off his shoulder and sprinted up the stairs and away.

‘I’ll skin you alive and eat you for breakfast!’

Yeah, yeah. He’d have to catch me first. I ran along the second-floor landing to the next set of stairs. I could still hear his complaints – and his companions’ sniggers – when I reached the third floor. Doubtless he’d soon be making an official complaint to someone, so my time was limited.

That wouldn’t have been a problem if it weren’t for the buzz of the magical ward I could sense right in front of me. I didn’t need to throw myself at it to know that it was too strong for me. I’d never get past it without some canny thinking or a clever detour.

I drew as close as I dared, my skin tingling beneath my fur.

I sniffed and caught the metallic tang of powerful enchantments.

Hmm: that wasn’t good, not good at all. I’d hoped that any wards wouldn’t reach the floor and I could duck underneath them, but whoever had set this one in place had been particularly diligent.

I glanced to my right and then my left. The gleaming wooden banister that hugged the staircase continued in both directions, framing the open hallway.

Could I leap onto it and walk it like a tightrope in the hope that there was a gap in the ward further up?

I’d have to be mindful of my youthful clumsiness – the last thing I wanted was to plunge three storeys to the ground floor.

In this body I’d probably survive the fall, but it wasn’t a given.

I gazed warily at the polished wood. My claws were sharp but I doubted they’d be much use on that slippery surface. Damn. I had to give it a go. I had to try . Bunching my muscles, I focused on the narrow banister. I could do this; I just had to concentrate. I would jump on a count of three.

One.

Two.

Two and a half.

Three.

I stayed where I was.

This was stupid. I was in the wrong body and I wasn’t foolishly reckless.

Even if there was a weak point in the wards and I didn't plunge to my death before I found it, I had no plan about what to do once I found Fetch Daniel Jackson. How would I get him to talk to me without raising the alarm? How would I escape after I’d interrogated him?

I’d be risking my life for absolutely nothing.

I stared at the banister for another long moment then turned tail and slunk down the stairs with a lot less speed and attitude than I’d ascended them. I tried not to think about the look in Thane’s eyes when I told him my trip had been a waste of time. Damn. Double damn .

When I reached the first-floor landing, it was apparent that the meal was over.

Streams of well-fed, rosy-cheeked witches filed past, and more than a few eyes widened in my direction.

I huffed. I wasn’t in the mood to be kicked again by any whining idiots with allergies but neither did I feel like rushing out of the council headquarters.

I avoided the occasional coaxing hand that reached out to me and darted behind a heavy looking pedestal and statue in a dark corner. Hunkering down, I waited for everyone to pass. It seemed to take an incredibly long time.

When they’d all disappeared, white-coated members of staff appeared.

They were witches too, though considerably less talented and with less impressive lineages than those who’d sat down for dinner.

The bustle of important people was replaced by the hustle of employees keen to get their jobs done so they could get home as soon as possible.

Clinking trolleys filled with dirty crockery and cutlery passed by, halting briefly near the stairs where levitational magic was applied and the crockery floated downwards, presumably to the kitchen.

A dumb waiter would have been far easier, I decided, as several stained tablecloths descended.

Witches often chose the most complicated system simply because they could.

The more powerful they were, the less common sense they seemed to have and the lazier they were.

I followed the floating tablecloths with disinterested eyes – then I watched them more closely. The linen wasn’t taking the same path as the crockery: it turned right instead of left before disappearing. I hesitated, then slid out from my hiding spot.

It was much quieter now, so it was easy to slip unobtrusively down the final staircase after the departing laundry.

A group of witches was standing nearby, one of whom was wearing familiar kitten heels.

I felt a brush of tension as I nipped past her, but she was engrossed in her conversation and neither Kitten Heels nor her companions seemed to notice me.

I stayed in the shadows where I wouldn’t be spotted.

The clump of tablecloths travelled fifty metres before another white-coated staff member plucked them from the air and threw them into a large, wheeled trolley.

She looked down the hallway to check if there were any more then, with a bored sigh, pushed the trolley through a wide door.

I slipped through it before it closed in my whiskered face.

I’d expected the laundry room to be busy and I was prepared to work hard to stay out of sight, but I needn’t have worried.

There were only two people inside – the woman I’d already seen and a younger man who was little more than a teenager.

Both of them were engrossed in their mundane task; even if they’d spotted the small ginger cat who’d come into the room, I doubted they’d have cared.

Magic buzzed at the far side of the room where sheets, towels, tablecloths and clothes were being dried; enchanted bursts of warm air were a boon to anyone with loads of washing to dry, though I knew from my own experience that the actual process of washing was more effective if it was done in a machine with real water.

Spells could be useful on stubborn stains but clothes washed magically never felt truly clean or fresh.

That was why the staff were separating the piles of dirty clothes into colours and types, bundling them into vast washing machines then taking them out for magically enhanced drying.

I eyed the different piles and focused on some small tin tubs that appeared to contain dark clothing.

There were scribbled notes attached to each container, doubtless to identify who the contents belonged to.

A lot of the council witches used the service here for their personal laundry; witches who were too lazy to carry their plates down a flight of stairs were also too lazy to do their own washing.

Giving the two busy workers a wide berth, I edged around the perimeter of the room, padded to the tubs and squinted at the labels. At least they were neatly printed and easy to read.

S. Lawrence. F. Austin. E. Saunders. H. Risbridger.

A few of the names were vaguely familiar but nothing specific came to mind. I kept going.

N. Bradley. K. Hammer. M. Sijugo.

I bared my teeth. This was likely a wild-goose chase.

B. Hausman. R. Mitt.

I sighed. I ought to give up. It was hot, and I was tired and hungry.

S. Bernhope. M. Patel.

Thane was locked up in the MET cell with Tiddles and probably getting worried.

X. Smith. V. Thomson. G. McDonald.

The longer I stayed away from the jail, the more chance that my disappearance would be noticed.

S. Pickover. D. Jackson. H. Puttman.

I stopped then gazed again at the metal tub inscribed D.

Jackson. A pile of dark clothing lay inside that looked similar to what the Fetch had been wearing at the mortuary that morning, though I couldn’t be certain.

He’d struck me as the kind of man who always wore dark clothes like most of the council witches; bright orange and spangly purple didn’t suggest you were a serious person capable of great things.

When I shoved my head inside the tub, my nose twitched and I immediately recoiled. Bloody hell: his aftershave was brutal. I sneezed three times but the musky, unpleasant scent still clung to my nostrils. I’d certainly not smelled anything like that on Fetch Jackson that morning.

I willed myself to stick my head into the bucket again and examine the clothes more closely. Several areas of the material looked stiff and unyielding, suggesting something had been spilled onto it and then dried: something dark and sticky like syrup. Or blood.

I swallowed hard. Suddenly my suspicion had hardened into near certainty. It had been him. Fetch Daniel Jackson had gone after Knox Thunderstick, tortured him and killed him.

I was stunned enough to rock back for a moment – and that was almost my undoing. A pair of hands appeared and the tub rose up. The female member of staff was taking the clothes to one of the machines where all the evidence would be washed away.

I gave a screeching miaow of protest and the woman peered over the tub. ‘There’s a cat!’ she exclaimed. ‘Somebody let a cat in here!’

‘Probably escaped from one of those bastards upstairs,’ the young man said. ‘Check if it’s got a collar.’

‘You check,’ she said. ‘I’ve got my hands full.’ She turned towards the machine and tossed the contents of the tub inside. No, I couldn’t let her do it.

I sprang forward, leapt and landed inside the tub. My paws sank onto the last few blood-encrusted items.

‘Hey!’ the woman protested and her face contorted into a spasm that I couldn’t interpret.

Either she thought I was the cutest thing since the city-wide invasion of blue-haired sprites at the turn of the millennium, or she was about to throw the tub in the air and send my little ginger cat body flying towards the ceiling.

I didn’t wait to find out. I dropped my head, snatched the first thing I could with my teeth and launched myself out of the tub, then I was off and running. I smacked into the door with such force that I managed to push it open.

I had my prize. I was out of there as quickly as my four legs could take me.