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“Name?”
“Maleagant.”
“Your, hum, your full name please, sir.”
“Just Maleagant.”
Maleagant expects the young constable to flounder — they always do, at that first answer. But this one must assume that Maleagant is either being difficult — which is true — or has an outstanding warrant to his name — surprisingly he does not — because he doesn’t push the matter. Maleagant can almost see the gears turning in the man’s head. With a name like that, he must be thinking, he won’t be difficult to find in the phonebook. And he would be right. If, of course, Maleagant was in the phonebook. Or even if there actually was a last name to be found.
Still he has to admire the man for taking it in stride as he does. The Queen’s finest, truly. The policeman clears his throat, taps his pen on his standard issue legal pad, and asks:
“Occupation?”
“Wizard.”
Ah. There it is — the flounder.
“Just call your superior,” Maleagant sighs. He’s irritated even though he knows he should come to expect it by now. But the coffee they brought him is terrible and the neon light buzzing above them is making his head hurt. He wants out of this interrogation room, the sooner the better. “He knows me.”
And, with a brief look of disbelief, the constable goes. He must be eager to dump the madman onto somebody else, especially someone higher up on the hierarchy.
Maleagant sighs again, more for show than anything, and settles in for a long wait.
-
Inspector Leodagan Cameliard is as unpleasant as ever, but at least he’s efficient. He doesn’t want Maleagant around any more than the man itself. It means that he makes it quick, and Maleagant is released a little under an hour after the inspector has been brought in to take his witness testimony. Difficult to tell who between Cameliard and him is the happiest to see Maleagant walk out of the station with nothing more than a warning to stay out of trouble.
As a matter of pride, Maleagant takes a moment outside to smoke a cigarette. He’s not being kicked out: he’s leaving exactly when and how he wants to. Besides, he’s been craving a smoke from the moment they brought him to the station some hours ago. The police officers going in and out of the station watch him warily. His reputation precedes him. He lights his cigarette, grinning behind the cover of his hand when he makes the flame flare up and a few of the nosey constables jump as if it might bite them. Even funnier is the forced casualness with which they stand around afterwards. They shift on their feet, pointedly not looking at him as if to say, what, me? Nah, I wasn’t even looking at the guy. Probably just a novelty lighter, anyway.
“Ah, you’re still there? Mr… Maleagant, right?”
Blinking in surprise, Maleagant glances away from the uneasy police officers to the single constable standing in front of him. It’s the same one who tried to take his statement earlier. The dim grey early morning light isn’t much more flattering than that of a neon, but he does look more attractive now that Maleagant bothers to pay attention to anything other than his frustration.Less young, as well, though Maleagant suspects the beard is pulling a lot of weight there — Either way he’s still nowhere near seasoned. There are still hopes and dreams sparkling in his eyes. How quaint.
Undaunted by Maleagant’s lack of a reaction, he adds, “I’m Constable Pendragon — but you can call me Arthur, I know it’s a mouthful.”
He thrusts his hand forward and seems surprised to see it already taken up by a coffee takeaway cup. Laughing, he transfers it to his other side, cradling it in the crook of his elbow.
Maleagant shakes the proffered hand gingerly — more out of fear for that cup than anything else. He can already see the styrofoam bending under the uneven pressure, the plastic cap threatening to pop off, the catastrophic flood of coffee clear as if written in the stars. He gets the feeling that Arthur will keep his hand up forever out of sheer bloody-minded politeness. It’s for his own good, really. No point making an already shitty morning worse by getting himself splattered with boiling hot coffee.
“Pendragon… Any connection to the late Commissioner?”
Something dims in Arthur’s sunshiney composition. He ducks his head, busying himself with saving the cup from its fate to cover his expression. It’s possible Maleagant would not have noticed the slight change had he not been observing the other man quite so closely.
Perhaps too closely.
He scowls, berating himself for being so predictable. He’s always been a sucker for a pretty face — but a cop might be taking it too far even for him.
“Yeah, that was my dad,” Arthur says, stumbling ever so slightly on that last word. He must mistake Maleagant’s expression for a judgement of Uther Pendragon’s character rather than Maleagant’s own because he adds, “Not a fan I take it?”
Maleagant has never bothered with politeness, but even he knows telling a man to his face that his father was a black-hearted bastard and the rotten fruit of a corrupt political system is a good way to get himself decked. He checks the hour — it’s barely six in the morning. Definitely too early for physical violence.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, diplomatically if not sincerely. Then, because he can’t help himself, “He was an asshole.”
Unexpectedly, Arthur doesn’t take offense and instead barks out another bright laugh.
“I’m sure he was. Coffee?”
Again he thrusts the cup forward, this time with purpose, going as far as to shake it a little when Maleagant doesn’t immediately make a move to take it.
“Lance asked me to get him a drink, but you look like you need it more,” he explains when Maleagant only gives him a puzzled look.
“Why don’t you go and tell me I look like shit while you’re at it.”
“What? No, I mean —”
Smirking, Maleagant lets Arthur fluster as he grinds the butt of his cigarette under his heel and takes the offered cup. A sip tells him whoever ‘Lance’ is has terrible taste in coffee. But 6a.m is no time to become picky with his caffeine. Even if it comes with every syrup the local Starbucks carries, or so it tastes like.
Arthur gives him a mullish look. “I’m starting to think you just like making me look like an ass.”
Maleagant offers him his smuggest expression over the rim of his cup. “Language, Constable.”
The outraged gasp he gets in return is nothing short of satisfying. He’s almost disappointed when somebody barks Arthur’s name from inside the station.
“Ah, right. Duty calls.” Smiling ruefully, Arthur nods at him in goodbye before jogging off.
Maleagant considers thanking him for the coffee, but in the end it isn’t worth the trouble of yelling after the man. They’re almost certain to run into each other again anyway, he thinks as he wanders off in the direction of his apartment — and, hopefully, his bed.
-
The next time Maleagant sees Constable “Truly a mouthful” Pendragon is at a crime scene.
Maleagant is not there for pleasure: it’s simply on the way to his apartment. As much as he’s been compared to carrion birds in the past, he doesn’t actually have any particular taste relating to dead bodies and is under no magical compulsion to go gawk at them whenever he catches wind of one. Since it’s raining, he’s pretty sure nobody is there for pleasure. The forensics team running around gathering evidence before the rain can wash it all away looks particularly miserable.
The only one even remotely cheery is, inexplicably, Pendragon Junior. He sees Maleagant first and catches his attention with a jaunty little wave that strongly suggests he might start jumping up and down and waving his arms any second now, should Maleagant miss him somehow.
“Mr Maleagant!” He calls once Maleagant has gotten closer, for good measure. “Fancy meeting you here.
“I live here,” he replies fatly.
Despite the heavy rain jacket proclaiming ‘POLICE’ he’s wearing, Arthur immediately shuffles forward to tuck himself under Maleagant’s umbrella. He’s careful not to crowd him in and nearly impales himself on the wiring for his trouble. Maleagant still gets the irrepressible urge to snap the umbrella closed out of spite. Fortunately for Arthur, the threat of frizzy hair proves to be more dissuasive than the sight of Arthur’s put upon face is tempting.
“You’ll have to ask my superior to go through,” Arthur says. “We’re not barring entry or anything. I just overheard him say they’ll need to call you, so you probably don’t want to get comfortable at home just for them to come knocking five minutes later.”
“Hm. Cameliard?”
“No, Inspector Brecilien, of Forensics.”
Maleagant lets his head fall back theatrically and lets out a dignified but heartfelt groan. Merlin. Great.
“Do you… have any idea why they’d want to talk to you?” Arthur asks, in a tone that is openly wondering whether he should preemptively arrest Maleagant for whatever crime his superior has deemed him guilty of.
“Was the crime particularly grisly and strange with no way to quickly identify the victim?” Maleagant asks. It’s entirely rhetorical. If Merlin means to call him, it can be nothing else. Arthur, obviously torn between curiosity and professionalism, makes a noncommittal noise that nonetheless manages to communicate that the crime scene is, indeed, exceptionally fucked up. “Then that’s why.”
A moment passes. Maleagant considers sneaking all the way to his apartment and unplugging his landline so Merlin has no choice but to go find his address rather than calling him. He already has his cell number blocked, of course — no reason to make it any easier than necessary for him to get in touch. It would be fun to have Merlin run all the way to the station and then right back here.
“Are you really a wizard?”
Maleagant throws Arthur a weary look. “Could you point me in the direction of Inspector Brecilien, Constable?”
Arthur looks a little disappointed at the lack of response, but he does show him which of the huddled forensics-team-shaped forms belong to Merlin Brecilien.
He approaches the man just as he’s zipping closed a body bag. Maleagant catches a glimpse of ruined flesh, hounded by the nagging feeling of teeth digging in his skin and the taste of wet dirt and dust. He clears his throat to get Merlin’s attention.
It’s impossible to tell if he took Merlin off guard — his face is as placid as ever — but he definitely isn’t happy to see Maleagant, which is expected. They serve opposite patrons and their relationship has always been just as antagonistic, although professionalism demands they don’t stab each other with scalpels.
“Warlock,” he greets coldly. “Can’t a man die in London without having you hanging around the scene?”
Maleagant jerks his thumb the way he came from before shoving his hand back into the pocket of his coat. “Don’t play that game with me, druid. Your pet Pendragon over there already told me you wanted to talk.”
Emotions flash across Merlin’s face, something too complex to be mere fondness or irritation. The man has always been close to Uther; it stands to reason he would take a shine to the son.
Maleagant wonders if he’ll help this one plant his evidence and cover his… indiscretions as well.
“... I was about to call,” Merlin admits. “This is the third identical case. Murder in broad daylight, plenty of witnesses but no one saw anything.”
“CCTV saw nothing I assume.”
“Same thing as everybody else did: a man being torn apart by thin air.”
Considering the lingering taste of graveyard on his tongue, Maleagant says, “A Barghest then.”
“Possibly, but that leaves the question of where it comes from. One victim, alright. But three?”
“Can I take a look?”
“Your spooky parlor trick will have to wait for the morgue.”
Bold words from a dishevelled hippie. “Alright, but you’re paying me time and a half. I’m off duty since —” he checks his phone “Ten minutes ago.”
-
Truth is, ‘wizard’ is more of a job description than a correct title for Maleagant.
Being a wizard requires a decade of learning latin and the correct way to cast a werelight and lord knows what else. It’s more trouble than it’s worth; an opinion which explains why Maleagant could not openly call himself a wizard among other practitioners without risking his neck. Wizards, like all academics, get quite vicious when faced by amateurs encroaching on their turf.
The correct term for someone born with magic despite an otherwise thoroughly human disposition is ‘warlock’, and Maleagant has gone out of his way to make it even more true by garnering boons and favors from creatures less mortal than him. A little less studying, a lot more blood. There’s not much more to say about it.
Or so he thought.
“So is the lack of a last name related to the wizard thing?”
Ignoring the cop-shaped labrador trailing after him and prattling inane questions, Maleagant glares at Merlin’s back. The Inspector’s shoulders hitch with contained laughter. He’ll get no help from there; in fact it’s Merlin himself who brought Arthur along on their little morgue escapade, calling it a ‘learning experience’. Since the young constable is in the Homicide Investigation branch of the force,they must be grooming him for Cameliard’s role as the liaison between them and the more… supernaturally aligned side of the force represented by Merlin once the old man retires.
Typical nepotism, really.
“Or is it a secret? Like if I knew your true name I’d hold power over you or something?” Arthur says it with a little shake of excitement in his voice.
“You’ve adjusted quickly to the existence of magic,” Maleagant notes wryly instead of answering.
Arthur jogs up to draw level with him, and Maleagant realizes too late that his reply only spurred Arthur on. It would be petty to hasten his pace just to stay in front — but Maleagant isn’t above pettiness. He is above running through the morgue, though, so he reluctantly abstains.
“I mean, the murder was really weird. And you don’t seem like the kind to goof around, you know? Or like you’re disillusioned.”
Maleagant has to give him this: Arthur has him figured out on that aspect.
“So, about your name—”
“Is it that strange to lack a surname?” Maleagant asks, irritated. “Maybe I’m an orphan. Maybe I’m icelandic. Maybe I’m an icelandic orphan.”
“Are you?”
“No. It was stolen by the fairies,” Maleagant retorts absently. They’ve just entered the morgue proper and the smell of chemicals and death is overwhelming for the brief moment before he adapts to it. Ignoring Arthur’s spluttered really?, he turns to Merlin. “It’s clean, right?”
“When would I have gotten the time to pump him full of formaldehyde? You came in with the body.” The inspector waves his hand towards the body laid on the examination table, partly covered by a sheet. “He’s all yours, leech.”
With a scowl, Maleagant pushes his medical mask down and leans over the body. He’s no coroner, but it doesn’t take a medical license to tell that the victim — a twenty-something white male, pretty in a nondescript sort of way — has been thoroughly chewed on by something approximately the size of a pony. Those bite marks don’t lie. Anything more specific will require a more in-depth analysis. Thankfully, his method doesn’t require him digging through the man’s guts, though it’s hardly more hygienic.
At least the body is fresh. There’s nothing worse than doing blood magic with something that has been putrefying for days.
Maleagant closes his eyes and calls upon the magic simmering in his bones, letting it crawl up his veins and settle under his tongue, in the gaps between his teeth, until all he tastes is the penny-and-lightning tang of power. Then he dips his finger in one of the wounds tearing the man’s chest open and sticks it in his mouth.
In the background, something retches. Probably Merlin for dramatic purposes.
The old blood dissolves like pop rocks on Maleagant’s tongue. Magic breaks down the hemoglobin, devouring the essence intrinsic to it and leaving the knowledge inscribed inside the complexe structure of protein like a particularly heavy aftertaste. Maleagant considers the information — the ever-present taste of graveyard dirt, the bitterness of fear, and underneath… something electrifying, heavy and sweet. Guilty pleasure. In the hope of clarifying that last one, he gives in to the compulsion to get another helping of congealed blood. It doesn’t taste any nicer the second time around.
He dabs his mouth clean from any stray liquid with a handkerchief then wipes his hand and stuffs it back in his pocket. Turning away from the body, he notes Arthur’s absence. He must have left the room while Maleagant was doing his thing. The constable will have to work on his squeamishness if he hopes to make it in the force: the work is usually gruesome even when one doesn’t factor in a blood-tasting warlock.
“Would you like a straw?” Merlin asks him in a mockery of pleasantry. He acts way too haughty for a man who spends half his free time fishing river spirits out of ponds before they can spark a diplomatic incident.
Maleagant ignores him with an ease born of long term habit. “His name was Peter Potter, and he was not in the Know. No idea what it was or how it happened. It does feel like a Barghest though.”
“Is that your professional opinion?”
“Yes.” He licks his teeth, trying to get rid of the phantom taste of the unfortunately named Peter Potter’s life, and gets one last flash of memories. “Also, he was having an affair.”
“Fascinating.”
“You ask for information, I give you information. Would you like me to identify the other two victims as well?”
He hopes not. The older the body, the larger the amount of material he needs to ingest to get any kind of clear information. He’d rather not have to bite into a chink of freezer-cold, formaldehyde’d flesh tonight.
“No, they were both carrying their IDs. Anything else you can tell us about the perp?”
“I’ll send you the sparknote version of my research on Barghest. Along with my bill.”
-
Thanks to the fact that he is an independent contractor, Maleagant does not have to fill any kind of paperwork relating to his rather hands-on assistance to the case. That’s Merlin’s problem. But because he’s a civilian, and it got dark while he was working, Constable “Pain in the ass” Pendragon has apparently found it necessary to walk him home.
He met Maleagant outside the morgue with a styrofoam cup full of water and a mint, “for the taste”, which was so unexpectedly thoughtful that Maleagant didn’t think to protest about his presence before they had already walked down a block.
“Aren’t you on the clock?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. If the man thinks that just because Maleagant goes around stuffing dead people’s blood in his mouth he’s a criminal in need of surveillance…
“I’m doing my part to keep the peace.” Arthur flashes him a cheeky grin. “What would my governor say if I let the force’s own freelance vampire get mugged on his way home?”
“Not a vampire.”
“Right. Wizard. How does that work, exactly?”
“Hell, you’re persistent.”
“Yep!”
Maleagant’s glare fails to dissuade Arthur from his line of questioning, and the man only looks back with cheerful curiosity.
“Sometimes your people are faced with a problem they don’t understand,” Maleagant relents. He hopes his tone passes along the message that not only is this a common occurrence, but he seriously doubts there’s ever been a problem that the “boys in blue” understood sufficiently to deal with it on their own. “Then they pay me to shed some light on the matter.”
“That’s so vague,” Arthur whines. “Where does the blood drinking even factor in?”
Maleagant shrugs. “Tools of the trade.”
Despite looking as if he might burst from curiosity, Arthur does not ask further questions and they walk the rest of the way quietly, with only the pitter-patter of rain to break the silence. Arthur has casually tucked himself under Maleagant’s umbrella again, as if he belongs there, and keeps up with Maleagant’s longer stride so seamlessly it would look awkward to speed up just so he can leave Arthur in the rain. Maleagant would like to say he bravely endures the other man’s proximity, but the truth is — it would be a lie. Arthur is shockingly unobtrusive for someone so chatty. And it’s… nice, to walk home accompanied for once.
Not that he’d ever admit it.
They stop at the bottom of the steps to Maleagant’s apartment building. The crime scene has been mostly cleared up, the secure perimeter overseen by a single miserable constable who waves at Arthur on his way past. Maleagant climbs them quickly, eager to get out of the rain.
“If I ask Merlin, what’ll he tell me?”
When Maleagant turns around, he finds that Arthur has chosen to stay in the rain over following him up. He only came as far as necessary to be considered walking him home. How curious.
“Nothing complimentary, I’m sure.”
“I’ll have to keep asking you then,” Arthur says with an eye-crinkling smile. “Have a good night, sir.”
“You too, constable,” Maleagant replies instinctively. He finds that he very nearly means it.
-
They catch the perp eventually. Maleagant reads about it in the paper — a bitter cuckolded man going after his wife’s lovers. No mention of whatever ritual he used to send a Barghest after undeserving targets, of course. As far as the public is aware he used a regular old gun. The truth, Maleagant gets it in his mailbox in a file stamped CLASSIFIED, along with his check.
There hasn’t been a proper wizard on the force in decades. As the next best thing until they perfect their recruiting technique, he gets all the research privilege.
He’s reading the fascinating breakdown of a novel summoning ritual in a cafe when someone approaches his table. He closes the file and lifts his eyes to the newcomer that has found their way through his cursory privacy spell.
Half of him expects Arthur Pendragon, if only because the young constable has been everywhere lately. Cameliard had him do paperwork and other such grunt work for the case, and that somehow translated to Arthur being around whenever Maleagant was called on the scene to identify a victim or give him educated opinion on some arcane phenomenon. They also crossed paths in the Starbucks down the road from the station, in the metro, and — of all places — at the post office. He’s begun to anticipate the obnoxious presence; which is why he’s left somewhat wrongfooted when his eyes find those of Morgane Lafey instead.
“Maleagant,” she greets pleasantly. “Is this seat taken?”
Gesturing for her to do as she pleases, Maleagant watches the woman as she makes herself comfortable. She crosses her legs prettily and he has to resist the urge to do the same out of reflex, instead folding his hands over the file lying between them.
“Lafey. It’s been too long.”
“She throws her hair over her shoulder. “Not nearly long enough, if I believe that look on your face.”
He dips his head in acknowledgement. They did not part on good terms; it would be silly to pretend otherwise now. Maleagant is infamous for holding a grudge.
“Would you like a drink?” She waves his offer off with an impatient hand. This courtesy dealt with — it never does any good to skip politeness with Morgane’s kind — he quickly follows it with, “What do you want?”
Another fae would have acted surprised at his question, pretending they have no ulterior motives whatsoever. But Morgane is a changeling, as much human as anything else, and she’s refreshingly quick to drop the pretense.
“You have a deal with the police. Correct?”
Maleagant doesn’t like where this is going, but that deal is, technically, public knowledge — if the public is very interested in his affairs. He can hardly lie to her face. “I do.”
“I need a favor.”
He glances around and wordlessly strengthens the privacy spell.
“Go on.”
“I have… sensitive matters to deal with inside the force. All good things, I assure you. Cleaning up corruption and such. I’d appreciate it if you would be so kind as to move some of my pieces in place, so to speak.”
Only then does it dawn on him. “This is about Arthur Pendragon, isn’t it.”
Morgane’s smile, already wolfish, turns into something truly wicked. “Good,” she hisses, “You know him already. You’ll get my full protection in virtue of the Agreement, of course; though I can’t guarantee you’ll get to keep the job if you are caught, even without being pursued in justice—”
Maleagant curls his fingers against the hard surface of the table and wonders how he could phrase his refusal.
He’s surprised by his lack of hesitation. He has a good thing going on with the force, all things considered. The pay is decent and the premium research material definitely makes up for having to deal with Merlin and his ilk. He’d rather not see it ruined over a fae’s petty revenge. Nothing to do with the soft smile of one particular constable at the heart of her latest plot, he thinks and fails to convince himself.
Some of it must read on his face. Morgane’s expression’s shutters and her eyes darken.
“You owe me one,” she reminds him.
“I’m afraid I’ll—”
“I am owed.” Her face does something complicated then — her glamour wavering briefly, revealing too-sharp features underlined by iridescent feathers. Maleagant chokes on the overwhelming stench of crushed flowers, honey and blood. “And I demand my due.”
“Very well. What do you need me to do?”
And he thought it would be as easy as just saying no.
-
It’s not often that Maleagant willingly walks into a police station. He’s not a career criminal — he has better things to do with his time — but that doesn’t mean the seat of power of London’s finest is his favorite place to visit. It’s always cold, the coffee sucks, and Maleagant doesn’t like cops for a number of reasons, only some of which related to his own failure to join the force before he enrolled in university.
Yet this cold and dreary Wednesday evening finds him walking into the station mostly of his own volition, on behest of Morgane’s latest plot.
It’s not as if this is his first covert, legally-questionable operation ordered by Morgane or her kind. This is the price he pays for his power. It’s the first time he’s actively been against it though. Maleagant is hardly a man burdened by scruples usually but this doesn’t sit right with him. He’s grown fond of the ease of his job, if not the people he has to work with.
And he’s starting to think he might even be fond of some of said colleagues — one name definitely comes to mind.
He strides past the secretary, who’s too well used to his rudeness to question his hurry, through the bullpen all the way to the desk bearing the A. Pendragon nameplate. Dropping his journal open on top of it, Maleagant pulls a folding knife from his sleeve and, kneeling, starts scratching the runes Morgane showed him into the wood. If anyone wonders what he’s doing, they’re smart enough not to ask.
“What the— Mr. Maleagant! What are you doing here? … What are you doing?”
Maleagant glances up, notes the bags under Arthut’s eyes and his ever-present smile before turning back to his work.
“I’m weakening the protective field that built up naturally in this place,” he replies matter-of-factly, because Morgane didn’t specify he had to be discreet and he’s feeling petty enough to take advantage of that loophole.
“Huh. Okay — why… why are you doing that?”
“Morgane Lafey has a grudge against your father she’d like to have you pay for in absentia and I owed her a favor.” He carefully carves the curl of one rune, making sure it’s right. Just because he doesn’t enjoy the job doesn’t mean he should botch it. “I cannot tell her no unfortunately — you know how it is with the Agreement.”
Arthur, who most definitely does not know how it is with the Agreement, huffs and leans against the desk. His thigh falls right next to Maleagant’s head. Maleagant gets an impression of woodsmoke and coffee, but he assumes that’s Arthur’s cologne rather than any kind of vestigia.
“And you’re telling me this… why.”
He sounds so confused, Maleagant can’t help to offer some sort of explanation. “I do not like to have my hand forced into sabotaging myself.” Maleagant flips the knife closed and slips it back into his sleeve before rising to his feet in one fluid motion. “Besides, this way you’ll be honor-bound to testify favorably at the inevitable trial for the crime I'm about to become an accessory to.”
Arthur chuckles at that, low in his throat, and rubs the etched runes with his thumb. His attention never leaves Maleagant. There’s something there — a kind of edge Maleagant has never seen before that reminds him, unexpectedly, of Uther.
He hated the man. But he could get used to that look on Arthur’s face.
“You’d better switch desks with someone else,” he advises blankly. “And ask Merlin to weave the wards again.”
“So that’s what the whole wizard thing is about, huh.”
Maleagant rolls his eyes. “Goodbye, Pendragon. Stay safe out there.”
He goes to leave, gathering his stuff as he passes by, but Arthur’s hand lands on his wrist and stops him in his tracks. The man has been careful not to touch him without permission until then. But now instead of snatching his hand back he tightens his grip slightly before drawing back, as if to make sure Maleagant has felt it. As if he could ever miss it.
“What about you?” Arthur asks quietly. “Are you going to be safe?”
Maleagant shrugs, covering his unease with well-worn flippancy.
“There’s not much she can do against me,” he says, and doesn’t mention that what little action she’s allowed to take against him would be enough to ruin his life if she so chooses.
-
Someone is in Maleagant’s apartment.
He knows before he’s even passed through the door. The echo of heels clicking against the floor is like an itch at the back of his head and he prods the frayed edges of his own wards with the care of a spider trying to avoid shaking its own web. He doesn’t let it show — pretending he has sprung the trap rather than disarmed it. He slides the key into the lock, toes off his shoes and pushes them to the side, shrugs off his coat and hangs it neatly. The perfect picture of a man coming home from work. With one hand he drops the keys on the table; with the other he slides the knife out of its hidden pocket. Slowly, he goes to turn on the light.
Morgane beats him to the lightswitch.
Her hand crushes his against the wall, pinning it against the cold plastic of the switch. He blinks, briefly blinded by the flood of light, and the bright afterimages fade to reveal Morgane’s face inches from his.
“You’ve cheated me, Maleagant,” she says slowly, her eyes narrowed to pale slits.
“I’ve done what you asked of me,” he replies. He keeps his face blank and his free arm slightly behind his back, hiding the knife. “Down to the letter of the law.”
The grip on his hand tightens and Maleagant swears he can hear the fragile bones there creak under the pressure. “You know what it’ll cost you to have gone against my demand,” Morgane warns. “Was it worth it to protect the Pendragon runt?”
“I didn’t go against my word. Good luck finding a court of law that will prosecute me over this.”
“There won’t be enough left of you to prosecute.”
Embarrassingly enough, this is when Maleagant realizes that under her calm demeanor, Morgane is furious — and she does mean to tear him apart since her opportunity to do so with Arthur was taken from her. She is fae, he remembers, prone to grudges and fits of rage. He made a deadly enemy of her, and all for what? A pretty face and his own pride.
Idiot, he berates himself. If you survive this, we’re getting you laid so this never happens again.
But first, he has to survive.
Gripping his knife tighter, Maleagant takes a shallow breath and throws his free hand up. The pure iron blade barely catches Morgane under the eye, leaving a thin trail of fuming blood along her cheekbone. Wrenching himself free from her briefly loosened grip, Maleagant shoulders his way past her and bites into his lip until his mouth floods with blood. This apartment building is too new; the only thing that has died there is the geriatric mutt of the previous tenants. He should have moved into one of the shitty victorian era apartment buildings — or a murder scene. But the dog’s ghost isn’t aware it died old; he hopes it will prove to be enough.
Wiping his bloodied mouth with his hand, Maleagant crosses the expanse of his flat and grabs the old dog collar, once forgotten behind an electric heater and now nailed over his table as a last resort security system. The air fills up with the smell of wet dog and faint barking.
Just as Morgane is reaching for him again, Maleagant whirls around and throws the blood-smeared collar at her.
The hazy shape of a dog materializes around it, and the mutt collides with Morgane at full speed. Spectral teeth flash before it sinks them into her forearm. The blood gives it enough strength to manifest physically for a moment, but it’s only a matter of seconds before Morgane tears it apart.
Maleagant intends to make use of every single one.
Grabbing the classified file off the couch where he had thrown it earlier, Maleagant runs for his bedroom and slams the door behind him. He dashes for the window, slams it open and, with a brief prayer to his parkour-obsessed uni boyfriend, jumps out of it.
He lives on the first floor. Never has he been so glad for that fact before. His angle twinges on impact with the asphalt; he shrugs it off and hits the ground running.
Possibly plans flash through his mind before being cast aside one after the other. The nearest Unseelie court is well out of London — and they don’t like him enough to grant him sanctuary from one of their own even if he could reach them on time. The Seelie court is an even worse bet. They’d laugh in his face. The police? Perhaps, but he left his phone in his coat back in the flat — he’ll just have to hope he looks insane enough to have the cops called on him.
Plan B then.
Barghest.
Too busy trying to find a solution to his little murderous problem, Maleagant doesn’t see the man in his way until he bodily runs into him. Two hands shoot out to steady him. Maleagant nearly shakes them off before the face in front of him registers to his overclocked brain.
“Maleagant?” Arthur asks, befuddled. “Are you okay? What’s going on? I was coming to check on—”
Maleagant spares a thought to consider how feral he must appear — running in the dark with a knife and classified documents, disheveled and covered in his own blood. He definitely makes it worse when he pushes his hair out of his face, smearing blood all over himself.
“Constable Pendragon, just the man I was looking for,” he says, aiming for carelessness and landing firmly on breathless and frantic.
“Did you get mugged?”
Ignoring him entirely, Maleagant bulldozes through. “I need a distraction. Or a lookout. Just— go stand under that streetlight and wait for a beautiful, enraged woman to come screaming for my blood.”
And, without waiting to see if Arthur will listen, Maleagant drops to his knees and spreads the contents of the file on the pavement.
He’s read through it once already, before Morgane’s interruption, and he’s familiar enough with this kind of magic that the ritual makes some sense to him at first glance. Of course he’s missing most if not all of the traditional ingredients, but that’s what being a warlock is for. There is very little in a ritual that a warlock can’t replace with blood.
Pushing all distractions aside — Morgane’s approach, Arthur’s presence, the aches from jumping out of a window — Maleagant gets to work.
The ground is too damp for proper runes, so Maleagant takes up light graffiti’ing and hopes the constable at his back doesn’t begrudge him for it. He doesn’t bother with chalk. Without hesitation he slashes down his arm and dips his fingers in the blood that wells up immediately. Finger painting. How… amateurish. But beggars can’t be choosers.
Maleagant works as fast as he can manage, glancing down at the pictures of the ritual he was provided every so often and steadfastly not listening to Arthur’s confused interrogation at his back.
“What are you doing? What’s going on?” He whispers hurriedly, at the same time as Morgane up the street yells, “Warlock!”
“You wanted to know what being a wizard entails,” Maleagant grits out through the roaring of his heartbeat in his ears. He scraps the dried blood off the tip of his knife and onto the wall. “Well, there it is.”
Slamming his blood-covered hand in the center of the ritual circle, Maleagant looks inside himself and calls on the graveyard dirt, the flash of teeth, the baying for blood—
The barghest manifests out of thin air mid-leap, maws open to reveal a row of already bloodied teeth. It passes through Maleagant without so much as ruffling his hair, entirely disregards Arthur and hurls itself at Morgane. She’s learned her lesson from the previous similar incident earlier in the evening and doesn’t try to block the attack heads-on. Unfortunately, sidestepping a barghest does not deter it for long. Its second pass is more successful and its many, many teeth find their target in Morgane’s shoulder. Closing his eyes does nothing to block her shrill cry, but it does make Maleagant feel slightly better — although the respite from his vertigo doesn’t last. He sways on his feet and finds Arthur right there in his space to support him.
“I called back up,” Arthur says. His voice is strained with a dangerous sort of calm. He truly is a cop’s son through and through, Maleagant thinks. Already so used to chaotic situations.
“You should call an ambulance,” Maleagant whispers, still not opening his eyes. He can’t tell if the sounds Morgane is making are due to pain, rage or frustration at not being able to make it past the summoned avenger to Arthur and Maleagant.
“For her?”
“For me,” Maleagant gripes, and passes out.
-
Modern hospitals are very quiet, and very clean. It’s always the magical remnants that give it away when Maleagant wakes up in one. No amount of lemon-scented cleaning product can cover the feeling of so much death in so little space.
Maleagant is squinting against the harsh ceiling light and wondering if the pinprick of pain in his arm is from the IV or if he’s already being weaned off the good painkillers when the door to his room opens.
“Oh, you’re awake!”
Such joy is so out of place in the routine of Maleagant waking up in a hospital bed that he jerks up to make sure he hasn’t hallucinated it. But no, there he is: Constable Sunshine himself, walking into the room with two takeaway cups as if he belongs there. The bags under his eyes would not be accepted aboard a plane as carry-ons: he’s been sleeping even less than his job usually demands.
It takes a fair bit of clearing his dry throat, but Maleagant eventually manages to rasp out a weak, “Constable Pendragon?”
“Actually I’m not on duty now so. You should definitely call me Arthur.” And with an easy smile the man sits next to Maleagant’s bed and hands him one of the cups. He makes the plastic chair look downright comfortable: that’s how casually he does it. “How are you feeling?”
Maleagant takes a sip and grimaces to find the cup contains some kind of herbal infusion. Right, blood loss: he’s not getting his caffeine fix any time soon.
“Like I was coursed down two blocks and nearly bled out on the sidewalk,” he replies wryly. “How’s Morgane?”
Arthur quirks an eyebrow at the sincere question but does say, “She got away, I’m afraid. Just— burst into a cloud of ravens and disappeared?”
He says it like he expects confirmation of what he saw. Maleagant just shrugs. “Yes, she does that.” The barghest should keep her busy for a while, he thinks. It doesn’t give up a prey that easily. Hopefully they’ll be at it for long enough that Morgane has cooled off by the time she finds a way to get rid of it.
“She did leave something behind,” Arthur says, weirdly apologetic. He digs through the pockets of his one size too small standard issue uniform jacket and presents Maleagant with an evidence bag containing a bloodstained dog collar. “I’m sorry.”
It takes a moment for Maleagant to understand what Arthur means. “Oh.” After a second he adds, “It was already dead, it’s fine.”
Arthur blinks owlishly before breaking into a smile.
“Ah, right. Wizard stuff again?”
“This time, yes,” Maleagant agrees with no little pleasure. Never one to miss an opportunity to sing his own praise, he asks, “What did you think of my little display, by the way?”
“Well, I didn’t actually see — anything? The woman — Morgane, right? She just started bleeding and screaming her head off all of a sudden, I don’t know.”
Maleagant groans inwardly. Of course, how could he forget. Barghests are invisible to all but their summoner and their target: Arthur would not have been able to see anything that the multiple witnesses to the murder cane hadn’t.
“You could always… show me again. Around dinner, maybe?” Stopping his internal rant, Maleagant focuses back on Arthur who now bears an uncharacteristically shy smile. “You owe me that much for bleeding all over my uniform — I had to borrow Lance’s spare.”
Maleagant idly wonders how Arthur would look wearing his coat, and figures that doesn’t leave him with much of a choice regarding his reply. If he’s already thinking about that, then it’s too late to not get attached.
If he’s being honest he got attached a long time ago.
“Maybe not the exact same spell,” he says, sketching a smile that he tries to make sincere. “But dinner I can do.”
Hopefully they can get through a full evening together without anyone bleeding.