Changeling Justice Read online

  The scowl never left Brevar’s face. “Aye, ye got me. Ah shifted in front o’ those Mundies ‘cause ah had tae protect mah burd.”

  “Your bird? You mean your girlfriend? Why are you telling us this now?” Wallace frowned. “Why the subterfuge, if what you say is true?”

  “Aye, it’s true,” Brevar sighed. His hulking form leaned forward, his head slumping. “Ye lifted me ‘n’ brought me tae this midden. Nae rights tae a solicitor ye say. Well, ahm knackered. Ah tell ye th’ truth, ah’ve git tae kip.”

  “We’ve been sitting here all morning, and this is the first you’ve mentioned a girlfriend.” Wallace crossed his arms and studied the changeling’s body language. “Why did you have to protect your girlfriend from NonDruws?”

  “She an’ ah were steamin’ a few pints at a pub when some Mundie wanker tried talkin’ mince tae my burd. When ah stepped up tae gie him a square go, four o’ his buddies walloped me.” Brevar shook his head, his gaze focused on the table’s steel surface. “Ah was pissed an’ didn’t think. Ah just shifted an’ threw ‘em off me.”

  “Well, that was unfortunate. So your shifting was an accident, you’re saying. Self-defense, but an accident.” Wallace glanced at Ember and the mirror she leaned against.

  Ember squinted at the changeling. As a Novice Investigator, she was supposed to stay silent and observe the interrogation. She was as surprised as anyone when she heard the words escape her lips. “He’s lying, Wallace. Everything he just said is a lie.”

  Brevar looked up from the table and shot a menacing glare her direction. “Whit wid ye ken? Ye’r aff yer nut. Pure skyrocket, ye! Aye, ah heard ye talkin’ tae yerself back at th’ graveyard.”

  “I wasn’t talking to myself, I was talking to—” Ember’s jaw snapped shut as she realized what she was about to say. She blinked and shook her head, her blonde hair sweeping against the glass behind her. “Don’t try diverting the topic. You’re lying to us. What’re you trying to cover up?”

  “Investigator Wright, that’s enough.” Wallace’s tone had an edge.

  Ember pointed at Brevar. “But he’s lying!”

  “Ye think ahm lyin’?” Brevar roared. The short chain connecting his wrist shackles clattered against the steel table. “Hoi, doll, ye’ve been lied tae yer whole life. We’ve all been lied tae! Ye have no idea how many lies we’re bein’ told. There’s mages practicin’ dark magic, darker than anything any o’ ye dobbers know. They’re th’ puppet masters, blindin’ us with shadows, makin’ us dance. An ye say ahm lyin’!”

  The door to the interrogation room whipped open, and two members of security rushed in, wielding Tasers. Behind them, the station supervisor stood in the doorway. “I think it’s time we press pause on this little show, don’t you agree?”

  “I want to hear what he has to say,” Ember admitted as she watched the two security officers step to either side of Brevar.

  Wallace nodded at the supervisor. “Good call, Philip. I think it’s time for a smoke break.”

  Ember frowned. “But neither of us smoke.”

  “We’ll be back in five minutes.” Wallace’s voice was calm, but his stern expression left no room for negotiation. He led her down the hall, through the offices, and past the elevator. He swung a door open, propping it against his foot.

  “You know how I feel about stairs, Wallace.” Her gaze flitted at the cement-and-steel stairwell and then back at her partner.

  He held his index finger vertically to his lips, shaking his head slightly. The mage leaned over the railing, looking down the descending well as he listened.

  Ember filled her lungs with musty air and held it. The only sounds she detected were emanating from the offices beyond the now-closed steel door.

  Wallace pivoted on his heel to lean against the gunmetal grey railing. He crossed his arms and stared at Ember with eyes the color of highland fog. “You’re on thin ice, Ember.”

  “If this is about me interrupting in there, I’m sorry, but—”

  “You were to observe, not participate.”

  “Yes, but he was lying to you.” Ember ran her fingers through her hair.

  “So he has been all morning,” Wallace frowned. Those bushy, silver eyebrows shaded his eyes from the dim light filtering in from the window above the stairs. “There’s a process we need to follow. One which you need to respect, especially when others are watching.”

  Ember chewed on her bottom lip. “I know. I’m sorry. I lost my cool in there, yeah?”

  “You did.” Wallace groomed his handlebar mustache with a thumb. “Tell me, what did you make of his outburst at the end?”

  She thought for a moment before answering. “You know how I’ve told you that when I focus, I can see a person’s aura, right?”

  He nodded once.

  “While you were talking to him, I watched Brevar’s aura…change.” Ember touched her palm to the rough plaster wall. “I don’t know how to explain it, other than it looked different when he was spinning tall tales.”

  “He was lying about the girlfriend.” Wallace nodded again.

  Ember blinked. “He was. But…you knew?”

  “I may not be able to read auras, but there are plenty of other signs I can read. You forget I’ve been interviewing liars for a whole lot longer than you’ve been alive.” The elder Malvern raised a bushy eyebrow. “You didn’t answer my question, though. What of the changeling’s outburst?”

  “He sounded mental. I mean, dark magic and mages making us dance like puppets? That’s the rambling of a bloke who’s cracked.” Ember glanced at the door, in the direction where Brevar waited in the interrogation room. “What do you think?”

  Wallace didn’t answer right away. He groomed his mustache and stared at the lone window. Particles of dust floated in the late-morning sunlight. “I’m not sure. I think we need to let our suspect explain himself. And you’re going to listen in there.”

  “Right.” Ember pushed herself away from the rough-plaster wall. She walked alongside the Senior Investigator as they meandered around the desks of the Department of Investigation.

  The station supervisor, Philip, stood in front of his office, shaking hands with an elderly Malvern who Ember didn’t know. The leathery old mage peered at Wallace, a hint of recognition in his eyes. He then turned and slowly walked away. His spine was bent with a stoop, as though his back was unable to straighten under the weight of so many years. His ivory-handled cane tapped an uneven staccato on the tile floor as he shuffled toward the elevator.

  As the visitor departed, Philip noticed the two Investigators approaching. “Smoke break over already? I was just about to fetch a spot of tea. Care to join me?”

  “We’ve got work to do,” Wallace answered without slowing.

  “Right. Of course.” Philip walked alongside with his hands behind his back, one hand holding the wrist of the other, as though joined by invisible handcuffs. “Livingston, I trust your experience, though this particular suspect doesn’t seem willing to budge. Do you think you’re making progress with the changeling? I wonder if we shouldn’t pause and discuss strategy. He seemed rather agitated and rambling like a lunatic.”

  Wallace made a noise which sounded like the hybrid of a scoff and a sigh. “That tells me we’re getting close to something.”

  “Close to something? You mean a confession, yeah?”

  “That, and something else. Give us another hour with the man and I’ll tell you what it is. What’s this now?” The Senior Investigator stopped so abruptly, Ember nearly walked into him.

  A short, bald man with a hooked nose was backing out of the interrogation room, drawing the door closed behind him. When he heard Wallace’s voice, he stopped and flashed an insincere smile. “Oi! Finally, you’re back. This one’s quite a handful.”

  Wallace growled, “what were you doing in there with my suspect?” His tone chilled further when he looked in on Brevar. “What the bloody hell did you just do, Lawrence?”

  Ember saw it, too: the
changeling stared listlessly at a wall, his unfocused eyes glazed over. Drool pooled at the corner of his mouth.

  “He was going mental, Livingston. The arsehole was babbling nonsense—a whole lot of drek.” Lawrence shrugged. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and acrid sweat saturated through the sleeves at his armpits.

  “Did you just perform a Memory Wash on this man?” Wallace spun around and grabbed the bald man by his jacket, shoving him against the wall with a thud.

  “Oi! Ye—yeah, I did, Livingston. Just a little, to get him to calm down.” The man shrugged again and licked his lips as they turned up into a sheepish grin. “I mi—might’ve gone too deep. My mistake.”

  The station supervisor shook his head. “Of all the incompetent nincompoops to walk through this office, you, James Lawrence, win the pennant. This is going in your file, you can be sure.”

  “In his file, Philip?” Wallace slammed the bald man against the wall for emphasis.

  “Alright, let’s just settle down, Livingston.” Philip held a palm up. “Why don’t you and your partner resume the interrogation while I go and reprimand Investigator Lawrence in my office.”

  “Interrogation?” Wallace spat the word. “This changeling’s a drooling idiot now. Brevar will be lucky to remember his own name after this.”

  “You and Wright have been working on no sleep,” Philip Pender said. “Why don’t you both go home, get some rest, and let cooler heads prevail. I’ll transfer your suspect to lockup. He’ll be ready for you to continue working the case tomorrow.”

  Wallace’s handlebar mustache lifted in a snarl, but he released his grip on the bald mage’s shirt. His voice resumed its calm drawl without losing any of its tension. “Case? This little wanker just destroyed my case. Now Brevar’s fate is in the High Council’s hands. Whatever he might’ve been able to tell us is lost.”

  Ember silently followed her partner through the offices, down the elevator and outside. The low clouds provided just enough cover to shield her weary eyes from the bright mid-day sun when she looked up at him.

  Her mind swirled with questions, with one finding its way to her lips. “Wallace? I’ve never seen you angry before. I hope I’m not out of line asking you this, in a car park of all places—”

  The Legend grumbled, “stop chewing and spit it out.”

  “It wasn’t an accident, was it? Investigator Lawrence’s Memory Wash.”

  Wallace stopped walking. He looked around the array of parked automobiles before he focused on his junior partner. “I’ve known James Lawrence for many years. He’s a proper wanker, but whatever he is, he’s not incompetent.”

  Ember spoke sotto voce. “It’s quite a coincidence that someone would wipe Brevar’s memory when he was about to tell us the truth about something.”

  “Coincidence indeed.” Wallace matched her hushed tone. “Did you notice that pensioner talking to Philip?”

  She nodded. “The one with the cane? Who was he?”

  “He’s a very old Malvern—one of the oldest, in fact. Richard Longbow is his name. He’s a member of the Druw High Council. I believe he was watching our interrogation of Brevar.”

  Ember frowned. “Why would a member of the High Council be interested in a simple case like this? Do you think Brevar actually knew something about mages practicing dark magic? He said something strangely poetic. Something about ‘blinding us with shadows.’ What do you suppose that means?”

  “I’m skeptical, but there are too many coincidences aligning today. With his memory washed, we might never know.” Wallace adjusted his wide-brimmed hat as he surveyed the parking lot again. “Just as I wonder if it’s mere coincidence that our suspect finally began telling the truth only when you spoke to him. This, the same day when you discover that you’re able to speak with ghosts.”

  She ran her fingers through her hair and muttered, “there’s got to be something we can do. Someone we can tell.”

  His gaze met her fire-blue eyes. “It’s been a dozen years, but do you remember when we met? Do you remember what I told you?”

  3

  You May Not Rise to Prominence

  Summer 1989

  (twelve years earlier)

  The girl and her room were both uncharacteristically tidy. She was at that transitory age where her bedroom was still decorated with once-loved childhood toys that were no longer played with. The aged, wide-eyed stuffed animals were witnesses, ready to offer testimony to the innocence of their owner.

  All her books were on their shelves, in their proper places and not stacked on the nightstand or cluttering the desk as they usually were. All the books, that is, save one large tome. Primer of the Arcane was an obvious recent immigrant, out of place in its dusty, leather-bound cover and its faded yellow pages. That book sat open atop the girl’s vanity, reflected in the freshly-cleaned mirror.

  Ember stood above the opened book and stared at the stranger in the mirror. This girl barely resembled her usual self; her light blonde hair was neatly curled, her lips were painted a faint purple hue, she wore a puffy lavender dress with matching shoes. Ember felt like she was wearing someone else’s skin.

  Her mother’s insistence, all of it, as was the importance of this day pressed upon Ember despite the anxiety it caused her. I’d rather be running through the woods around Malvern Hills like a wild animal than pretending to be someone I’m not—someone proper and refined. Maybe they wouldn’t notice if I ran away and lived in a tree. At least squirrels don’t have to dress up and be tested by a stranger.

  “First impressions are paramount,” her mother told her earlier. “The Investigator may wish to see your room, darling. When I was tested, the Investigator spent the better part of a day observing and making notes. It’s all part of the process.”

  “What if I don’t want to be tested?” Ember spoke aloud to the mirror, uttering what she didn’t dare say to her mother.

  Her parents had such high hopes for their children. Cynthia had already been through this a few years ago when she herself was 13 years old. Cyn was eager to be tested, to prove herself. The irony was that the need for a test was all but unnecessary for her sister; she had already proven herself artistically gifted.

  Not so with Ember. She attempted to play instruments, to sing, to sketch and paint. Her parents had given her Cynthia’s old easel and paint set. They let her try various instruments. Mr. and Mrs. Wright even sent her to countless instructors. The obvious conclusion was that Ember could safely rule out the Art Track.

  Her mother, the accomplished Healer, had shown signs of adeptness when she was an adolescent. She had—in the sixty or so years since—cultivated her skills to become known as one of the most sought-after Healers of mind-body energy in Europe, if not the world. Druwish people with ailments other Healers could not reach would schedule appointments to see the gifted Benedette Wright at her private practice in western England.

  Ember one time summoned her energy to connect with an injured finch that the family’s tabby brought in. She cradled the helpless creature in her hands as her mother instructed, but the quivering bird died anyway. She had no desire to feel such angst again and never tried after that.

  Her father, the Analytic, showed early promise as evidenced by his skill in math through primary school. His position as a career financial manager within the Druwish Government was secure.

  Oliver Wright’s youngest daughter, on the other hand, was an average student on the best of days. Certainly not a candidate for the Analytic Track. Ember was fine with that, as the thought of being a career bureaucrat or financial advisor such as her father bored her to tears.

  Ember’s parents didn’t outright say they were disappointed in her, but they didn’t exactly have to. She sensed their dismay, their frustration. She imagined them voicing their concerns in hushed whispers to one another, “at least one of our children will contribute to the Druw community.”

  Ember sighed. She looked down at the open book and decided to practice one of the Eleme
ntal spells she read about in the Primer of the Arcane that every self-respecting Malvern family seemed to have in their home library. She read the instructions for a basic telekinesis gesture. Seems simple enough.

  First, Ember squeezed out a satisfying dollop of canary yellow paint onto Cynthia’s well-used palette. The acrylic fumes met her nostrils, tempting her to sneeze. She set up a blank sheet of poster board on the easel and stood back. She straightened the ruffles in her new dress and stared at the brush laying next to the palette. Her index and middle finger of both hands were pressed against her temples, exactly as the old book instructed. She focused intensely and visualized the brush lifting into the air, dabbing a sample of paint into a neat swirl across the boar hair bristles, and then finally drawing a simple circle onto the poster board.

  At least that was what was supposed to happen.

  She detected a hint of movement—did she imagine that? She focused, closing her eyes and concentrating. Then came a crash. When she opened her eyes, the easel was knocked over, and the palette had been flung onto her—bright, yellow paint on her new lavender dress.

  Her parents had gotten used to Ember’s clumsiness over the years. “Nothing’s broken” became her weary announcement whenever she tripped down stairs or knocked something over, or otherwise demonstrated her lack of gracefulness.

  She couldn’t make that claim this time, however.

  Her mother rushed into the room. “Oh, Emberly Wright, you’ve ruined your dress! The Investigator is to arrive any moment! What were you thinking?”

  Ember was instructed to change into her next-best dress, which was a gaudy mint green number that didn’t quite fit. As her mother fretted and tsked, Ember felt her emotions burn.

  “Mummy, I don’t want to be tested!” The words crawled out of her throat in a pathetic sob.

  Once she found her voice, Ember couldn’t control the outburst which followed. “Please don’t make me do this. I just want to live my life. I don’t want to be groomed into something special like Cyn. I know I’m not talented like you or Daddy or sis. I’m sorry I’m so disappointing.”