Dead like ned, p.1
Dead Like Ned, page 1
part #1 of The Infernal Artefacts Trilogy Series
Dead Like Ned
The Infernal Artefacts Trilogy
Book One
by A.A. Albright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © A.A. Albright 2021
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
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Website: https://aaalbright.com
Table of Contents
1. A Change is Not as Good as a Rest
2. The Ghost Gabber
3. The Infernal Artefacts
4. The Fog
5. Bigheaded Ned
6. Cacklers Are No Laughing Matter
7. I Just Don’t Know What to Do With Myself
8. Rejected, Ejected, It’s All The Same
9. A Compelling Argument
10. The Customer Is Always Rude
11. The Foul Factory
12. Let the Hat Out of the Bag
13. The Anniversary of When We First Met
14. Ever So Angelic
15. The Book of Balance
16. Once More Into the Fog
17. Kicking Cabbages and Breaking Glass
18. That Unfathomable Something
19. Compel Me Once …
20. A Simple Removal of Love
21. When We Collided
Extract from the Compendium of Supernatural Beings
Books by A.A. Albright
1. A Change is Not as Good as a Rest
There are certain established truths in this world of ours: most of us accept that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, that the moon controls the tide, and that almost all weredogs are vegan.
There are some things, however, which we only wish were true. That morning, for instance, I wished that if I buried my head beneath my pillow, the world would stay on pause, and nothing in my life would change.
‘Ned!’ The call came in a soft Scottish accent, and was accompanied by a knock at my bedroom door. ‘Ned, are you still in bed? It’s just … I wouldnae want to leave without saying goodbye.’
I groaned and pulled a second pillow over my head. Sometimes, denial is all you’ve got.
Cleo, my cat, meowed loudly in my face. ‘Can’t you hear the most annoying flatmate in the world, Ned?’ she said (like most magical animals, she was perfectly capable of speaking, and not quite as capable of knowing when to shut up). ‘Hamish is out there, knocking on your door.’
‘No he’s not,’ I insisted. ‘Not if I can’t hear him.’
Another knock came. ‘Ned? I can hear you talking to Cleo. Come out and say goodbye, will you? I donnae want to leave without a great big hug.’
I stayed silent a moment, then mumbled, ‘Yeah? Well I don’t want you to leave at all.’
‘Huh? I thought I heard ye say something. Did ye say something, Ned?’ asked Hamish, his accent turning increasingly Scottish. The deeper the Scottish went, the more upset he was. I didn’t want to upset him, I really didn’t. But I couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving, either.
I could hear the floorboards creak as he turned on his heels. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Well, I really would have loved to say a proper goodbye, Ned, but you know where I’ll be.’
I removed one pillow, listening harder as he walked out of the flat.
‘You’re being a ninny,’ Cleo told me.
I pulled off the second pillow and eyeballed my familiar, but it was hard to glare at her for very long. Cleo was a stunning cat, with creamy coloured fur and chocolate pointing, and bright blue eyes. She was adorable, and she knew it. A less good-looking cat might attempt to eke out the insults, but Cleo didn’t have that problem.
‘He’s an idiot to want to move out,’ she went on. ‘And he’ll regret it. But don’t you at least want to go out there and tell him he’s being an idiot? That way, when it all goes wrong, you can say “I told you so”.’
‘You can’t be serious. I would never say that to Hamish.’
She sniggered. ‘Sure you wouldn’t. But you’d think it. We both would. Go on, Ned. Go out there and say a proper goodbye.’
‘Fine,’ I grumbled, pulling on my robe and slippers and stomping out of my bedroom. I rushed out through the flat, down the stairs and through my shop, and found him outside on the footpath, swinging a leg over his broom.
‘So, that’s it then.’ I looked at what remained of his bags and boxes, packed and ready to go, in the sidecar of the broom. Most of his things had already been sent on ahead. ‘You’re really leaving? On a Sunday morning?’
Hamish gave me a reassuring smile. ‘Ach, Ned. I’m nae leaving. I’m just … moving on. You know what they say – a change is as good as a rest.’
‘Well, they’re wrong,’ I argued. ‘A change is not as good as a rest. In fact, if nothing were changing, you and I would still be asleep right now. We’d sleep right up until the Sunday papers came, and then we’d get up, have a large, unhealthy breakfast, and do the crossword together.’
‘I forgot about the crossword.’ He shifted a little on the seatpad of his broom. ‘Well … save it and we’ll do it together next Sunday. I’ll come over for breakfast.’
‘You will?’ I heard the pathetically hopeful note in my voice. Anyone overhearing me would think I was a heartbroken ex-girlfriend instead of simply a flatmate.
‘I promise. And who knows? Things might not work out with Eva and me. I could be back long before next Sunday.’ He said it jokingly, and I knew he didn’t believe a word. He was absolutely certain that this move was going to work out.
‘And you just assume we’d welcome you back with open arms, I’ll bet,’ said Cleo. I hadn’t noticed her following me out, but she was here now, standing in front of my legs and giving Hamish a look of absolute disdain. ‘As if. You’ll have to get down on your hands and knees before we’d even begin to consider letting you return.’
‘Well, of course,’ Hamish replied. ‘I wouldn’t expect it to be any other way. But you know, I was only joking. I … I’ll miss you guys more than I can tell you. But I don’t think I will be back. You know that, right? I’ll come over for visits and everything, but me and Eva … it’s the real deal.’
‘Hah!’ spat Cleo. ‘You and Eva have been together since July and we’re now only a couple of weeks into October. You probably haven’t even farted in front of each other yet. The real deal my behind! You’re a broom crash waiting to happen.’
Hamish looked my way. ‘Is that what you think, Ned?’
‘I … no. I mean … you and Eva seem incredibly happy, and I’m happy for you both, you know I am. But some people might think that it’s all moving a little bit fast, I suppose. Not me. Just … some people.’
‘Ned.’ He laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘For over two years, I was stuck in a dog’s body. That’s a heck of a lot of my life to lose, and I cannae waste any more time. Ye get that, right?’
I felt my cheeks flush with shame. Every word he spoke was true. The years Hamish and I had lived together had been interesting, to say the least. For much of that time, he’d been turned into a dog. Now that the spell was broken and he was a man once more, it was no wonder he felt the need to live life to the full.
‘It feels so right with Eva,’ he continued. ‘But that doesnae mean I’m not gonna miss you like mad. I will be back for next Sunday’s crossword. I shall expect mandatory attendance at each and every karaoke night, too.’ His eyes welled up. ‘You’re one of the most wonderful friends a guy could ever have, Ned Marvin. So don’t you think for a second that I’m going to forget about you.’
I wiped away a tear. ‘Well, duh. I’m amazing.’
‘You really are,’ he told me, leaning forward on his broom to kiss my forehead. ‘I have to get off now, but I’ll see you soon Ned. And in the meantime, I’ll miss you like mad.’
‘I’ll miss you too,’ I said, as he hit a button on his broom’s keypad, and kicked off into the air.
‘I won’t!’ Cleo cried. ‘Not even remotely. Not even a little bit.’
After those loving words of departure, my cat sighed forlornly and slunk back inside. For years, Cleo and Hamish had battled and bickered. But, even though they would both vehemently deny it, they’d also been incredibly close friends. I followed behind her, about to scoop her into my arms and give her an enormous hug, when I noticed that Hamish had left something behind.
On a chair by the door sat one of his hats: a brown one, with a purple band and a star-shaped buckle. I ran back out and called after him, ‘Hamish! You’ve left your hat behind.’ But he was far above the buildings of Dublin City by then, and he didn’t hear a word I said; he continued flying away while I stood there, clutching the hat to my chest.
It was cold on the footpath, but I didn’t go back inside. It smelled bad, too, although a bad smell wasn’t unusual for Samhain Street. We had a peculiarly thick air quality here, caused by a foul-smelling vapour that rose off the canal and permeated the entire enclave. This morning, the air smelled just as foul as it ought to, but … I sniffed a little harder … there was something else. Something beneath the stench of the canal. It smelled like the soil did, when you journeyed deep, deep down below the surface.
As I tried to pinpoint the origin of this new smell, my skin pri
2. The Ghost Gabber
It’s probably time that I told you a little bit about me. You’ll have heard my flatmate call me Ned as he abandoned me for pastures new. And, while Ned is often a man’s name, I am most definitely a woman. The story goes that my grandfather, a man called Nedward Marvin, had been certain that he would have a son, so certain that he went out and bought numerous baby toys and blankets and so on, with NM inscribed and embroidered on it all. When my mother came along, he decided to call her Nedina, a slightly more feminine (but no less ugly) version of the moniker. It saved him having to return the things he’d bought.
That explains why my mother had such a ghastly name, but as to why she then passed it onto me is anyone’s guess. She certainly loved me when I was a child, so perhaps the name was a prophetic punishment for the disappointment I would bring her later on, when I was grown.
Either way, that was me, Nedina Marvin (but please call me Ned), a witch of almost thirty-one. I lived in Samhain Street, one of Dublin’s many magical enclaves, where I owned a shop which sold healing wands and necromancy supplies – the latter outsold the former by a ratio of nine to one.
Like the other magical enclaves, the entrance to Samhain Street could only be seen under certain circumstances. You had to be a witch, a familiar, or a faerie, to see the entrance with the naked eye. Any other supernatural needed a little bit of help, in the form of a precious stone known as Admitaz to gain admittance. But the method of entry was one of the very few things Samhain Street had in common with the other enclaves.
Samhain Street was home to a certain sort of supernatural, the kind who didn’t like the law, or any sort of interference. The residents here liked to be left well enough alone so that they could plot and scheme to their hearts’ content.
Perhaps we drew a certain sort of individual because the enclave was once a penal colony. Or maybe it was because Samhain Street was the burial ground of some of the most dangerous demons the world has ever known.
Whatever the reasons might have been, this enclave was a unique and sometimes maddening place. It was the last place on earth I actually wanted to live – in my imagination I was a healer, living in a pretty cottage with a lovely big garden, and sea air that smelled fresh and clean – but for reasons I didn’t like to talk about, I was stuck.
And this morning, now that one of my flatmates had moved out, and the other was away on a training course, I felt more alone here than ever. Cleo had gone out shortly after breakfast, saying she was heading for a spot of mouse hunting. I knew she was lying. Cleo never hunted. We were on at least the hundredth generation of the resident mouse clan in our building, and my cat was far too lazy to deport a single one.
I guessed she was making excuses because she wanted to be alone, but I just wished we could be alone together.
I considered staying in my pyjamas for the day, eating cake and feeling sorry for myself, but after a little bit of that (and a large piece of cake) I became irritated with myself. The reason they say misery loves company is because misery on its own is just plain miserable. So I put the cake away, got dressed, and decided to do some work instead.
I normally made a few deliveries on Sunday afternoons, so that I wouldn’t have to leave the shop on a weekday. But if I made them this morning instead, then it would give me something less self-indulgent to do. Sure, when the afternoon rolled in I’d have to figure out how to fill in those hours, but let’s not get too logical.
≈
I looked to my left and right as I headed into the Wayfarer Station. The station was in another of Dublin’s enclaves, an area known as Warren Lane, but you could never be too careful – the Wayfarers were the supernatural police force and, as I think I’ve already mentioned, the people of my enclave weren’t too fond of the law. If I were seen here, there would be questions. No one would actually voice those questions and suspicions directly to my face, but rumours would spread, and my business would suffer.
I rushed inside to see my second-least favourite member of the force, sitting at the front desk doing paperwork and eating a jam doughnut. The jam was spilling out all over the papers he was filling in. He looked up at me and grinned. ‘Hello Ned. How are you this morning?’
‘I’m great, Todge,’ I told him, lying through my teeth. ‘Anyway …’ I placed a box on the table. ‘This is the delivery of wands for your healer. If you could just sign for them, that’d be great.’
‘Oh.’ Todge’s eyes widened. ‘Actually, Shane was expecting you to come in with those later on today, not this morning.’
Shane Moore was the aforementioned healer – although he was more of a medical examiner, really, spending his days dealing with dead bodies at crime scenes or at his lab.
‘Well, does it matter when they’re delivered?’ I questioned. ‘You’ve signed for them all of the other times I’ve brought them in, so I don’t see what it has to do with Shane. He’s hardly going to be working on a Sunday, is he?’
‘But he is working today. On a murder.’ Todge wiped some sugar from his chin (he only succeeded in removing a quarter of it). ‘That’s the problem. See, this morning, when Shane came in, he came up to my desk and he said, “Hey Todge, when Ned Marvin makes those wand deliveries this afternoon, get her to pop down to the lab to see me, will you? It’s really important.”’ Todge shrugged. ‘That’s what he said, word for word. But you’ve come in this morning instead of this afternoon, so … I don’t know if that changes things. Do you think it changes things? Maybe I should call him. Should I call him?’
‘No, Todge.’ My hands tightened around the box of wands as I lifted it from the desk. ‘There’s no need to call him. I’ll go on down.’
≈
I felt more than just a little bit sick as I headed down into the bowels of the building. The lab meant dead people. And dead people meant ghosts.
I’ve already told you that I’m a witch who lives in one of Ireland’s dodgier enclaves, and that I run a shop which sells necromancy supplies and healing wands (and that the necromancy supply sales far outweigh the wand sales). If you’re not already convinced that I’m a wrong ‘un, perhaps you’ll change your mind when I tell you that I also communicate with ghosts. And I don’t mean that I see them and speak to them on Halloween, like any witch can; I mean that I see, hear and talk to ghosts every single day.
I don’t like to mention it, or to think about it. I don’t like to experience it, either. It’s just a fact of my existence that, ever since I can remember, the dead have liked to have a good old jibber jabber with me.
Some are helpful, some are chatty, and some have messages for loved ones. Others are simply frightened of what comes next. There are frustrating ghosts, too. Last week I had a ghost who hassled me non-stop until I tracked down his favourite author to tell him that, if he could still rate books online, he would have given the author’s last novel four and three quarter stars out of five. The author in question was incredibly reclusive and difficult to find.
A few weeks before that there was a ghost who insisted that I tell her husband she’d always hated his brown trousers. A month before that, a ghost refused to pass on until I contacted the makers of Fizz-Wizz cola to tell them that he hated their ‘new and improved’ flavouring.
Those frustrations were nothing compared to some of the more ornery ghosts I’d dealt with. There were far too many spirits who refused to move on, and who were stubborn enough to move things around and frighten the bejaysus out of the living. When that happened, Cleo and I were called in by the ghost’s victims to banish the offender. It was usually dangerous, often scary, and it always left me craving a good strong dose of chocolate.
A morgue, though, or more specifically a pathology lab in which murder victims were examined, well, that was a whole other story. I’d been down on this level once before to visit Hamish. Although he was a professor at a wizarding college, he was also working on a transport project for the Wayfarers, and they wanted to keep it out of sight until completion.
