There was a knock on the front door to the building just as Madame Tracy was getting her group for that afternoon's parting of the veil settled. As Mr. Shadwell couldn't be counted on to answer the door even when he wasn't passed out from shock on Madame Tracy's bed, she excused herself for a moment to check who it was.
It was Warlock, of course. He was standing in the doorway with the full confidence of someone who knew what they were doing was of vital importance, as well as the confidence of someone who'd been told ever since he could remember that one day he'd grow up with the power to crush armies under his boot heel. The latter kind of confidence could very easily shade into arrogance, but Warlock was a good boy at heart, and managed to walk the line most days.
Most of the time that kind of confidence is a good thing. Enough confidence and you can convince people to go along with whatever you say because you certainly sound like you know what you're doing. Enough confidence and you can even convince yourself you know what you're doing, even when you very much do not. Unfortunately, this was not one of those times. In Madame Tracy's experience the children that came actually wanting to talk to the departed were generally sad and uncertain. The confident ones were only ever there to take the mick.
"Can I help you?" she said in the sternest voice she used outside of her sessions of strict discipline and intimate massage. Warlock, having grown up with Thaddeus and Harriet Dowling, and a demon for a nanny, didn't particularly notice.
"I was hoping to join the séance for this afternoon. The people I want to contact aren't dead, but they aren't human either, so I thought it might work."
That answer only heightened Madame Tracy's suspicions. She was just about to tell Warlock the session for today and all her sessions for the foreseeable future were full up, when a kitten stuck her head out of Warlock's bag and mewed. Madame Tracy wasn't a cat person especially – she was rather fond of rabbits, but she didn't have any room for a hutch in her flat and it didn't fit much with the aesthetics of either of her professions – but she did like cute things. And the little kitten was very cute.
Warlock gave Sister Cat a fond look and a scratch behind the ears before turning back to Madame Tracy. "And could I get some water for Sister Cat? And a bowl – I've brought some of her food with me."
Madame Tracy softened immediately as she looked the boy over again. He wasn't a hoodlum after all. Hoodlums didn't bring their cats around with them, and they certainly didn't bring their cats and cat food and a bag stuffed full of who knew what else. He wasn't a hoodlum; he was a runaway. As to who he was running away from and whether he should be taken back to them post-haste or kept as far away from them as possible, she didn't know. She'd sit him down after the session so the two of them could have a nice cuppa, and she'd get it out of him them.
"Of course dear; we were just about to start," she said, leading the boy in. Mrs. Ormerod kicked up a bit of a fuss about the late addition who would no doubt want to cut into her time with her Ron, but she was placated with the reassurance that Sister Cat, now chowing down quite voraciously in the corner, was good luck for the proceedings. So Warlock was folded in to the rest of the group as they began the séance, at which point he very quickly came to the disappointing conclusion Madame Tracy was a fake.
This was not entirely correct. Madame Tracy was in fact a fairly spiritually receptive person as far as such things went, and while she didn't like to use too many occult trappings in her work – her customers wanted to dabble in the occult, not be thrust up to their necks in it – the bits she did use she was sure to get right. In fact the only real reason Madame Tracy's séances were fake was she herself didn't actually believe in ghosts. She was reliably able to pull any wandering spirits to her when she sat down and called them, but since she didn't believe in them, they weren't able to do much of anything.
But while Madame Tracy didn't believe in ghosts, she did believe in what she was doing. It was just in her mind what she was doing was not calling on the spirits of the dead; she was providing comfort and closure to her customers. She was letting them know that Granddad really was quite happy on the other side and yes, of course Mom was proud of you dear. They were lies, but they were well-intentioned lies, lies told out of compassion and even love. That little bit of love was just the crack in the door a wandering angel spirit would need to force his way in.
Except Madame Tracy wasn't the only spiritually receptive person in the room. The boy sitting next to her hadn't been born receptive, but it would have been impossible for him to avoid becoming so, having grown up with a pair of ethereal and occult beings. What's more, while he didn't particularly believe in ghosts any more than Madame Tracy, he did believe in angels and demons, and quite fervently believed in one particular angel and demon. He was desperate to contact the two of them because he wanted to help save the world, but mostly because he loved them both very much. So when that particular angel's spirit found its way to Madame Tracy's flat, it should be no surprise whatsoever which body he was drawn to inhabit.
Warlock screamed. Or at least that was how the other occupants in the room would have described it, though truthfully the sound had a lot more in common with an elephant trumpeting. Lightning flashed and thunder crashed and Warlock began making strange noises and convulsing and panting.
"What's going on with this now?" Mrs. Ormerod demanded, quite put out. She'd been coming to Madame Tracy for seven years now and knew exactly how things were supposed to go. This was not it.
Madame Tracy, who up until less than a minute ago hadn't believed in spirits, said quite calmly, "Something real, I expect. Come on dears, I think we best get you lot out of here." She stood up and began ushering the other three out the door. Madame Tracy might not have been the smartest woman around, but she really was very adaptable.
By this time Warlock was feeling very strange indeed. Vague and fuzzy and distant. He was aware the room was empty now and it hadn't been before, but he couldn't seem to place when the change had happened. He was also aware something big must have happened, and right while he was supposed to be in the middle of doing something important, but he couldn't place what that had been either. The human brain is a marvellous thing really, right up there with The Great Barrier Reef and lazy Sunday afternoons and bumblebees, but it's only built to handle so much at once. Not to mention this was a good deal outside the realm of what was usually expected of Warlock's brain. It was no wonder he was confused.
He felt himself stand up and head toward the kitchen. There was a thought in his head, a distinctly not-Warlock thought, that he'd like a cup of tea to settle him as he figured out what to do next and how to get to Tadfield. His arm reached out and his hand grabbed hold of Madame Tracy's kettle, but he was beginning to think it wasn't him doing any of it at all. His head turned and he happened to catch a glimpse of himself in a mirror. Suddenly it all fell to place.
"Brother Francis!" Warlock cried out. In his delight he momentarily forgot all about Brother Aziraphale's real name.
"Warlock?" Aziraphale said, using Warlock's mouth to do it. He looked down at himself, or more accurately the body he was inhabiting. "Is that – this you? What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you and Nanny Crowley," Warlock answered. "What are you doing inside of me? I thought it was demons who possessed people, not angels."
"We're from the same stock originally," Aziraphale answered primly before doing a mental double take. "I am sorry did you say angels and demons? And Nanny Crowley?"
"Well, that is what you both are. Nanny is a demon named Crowley and you're an angel named Aziraphale, and the two of you are trying to stop the world from ending," Warlock replied reasonably. "I heard you talking at my birthday party and decided to come help."
"Oh," Aziraphale said.
Warlock got the sense Brother Aziraphale needed a chance to sort through all that, so he gave him a minute. Meanwhile Sister Cat had smelled the change in the room, and had come to give Warlock a good sniff. She needed to satisfy her curiosity and also make sure that whatever this change was it was safe for her person.
"That's the kitten from your party," Aziraphale observed.
"Yeah, I got her for my birthday," Warlock said. Sister Cat, having decided the new smell was Good, rolled onto her back for belly rubs. Warlock crouched down and gave her a few pets, then grabbed onto her belly and began shaking her a little. Sister Cat thought this was a great game and began playfully fighting back. "Her name is Sister Cat."
"You named her Sister Cat?" As odd as it was to feel your lips and your tongue moving only to have someone else's voice come out of your mouth, it was decidedly odder to have that voice sound choked with emotion when you weren't feeling emotional in the least.
"Yeah. What else would I call her?" Warlock asked.
"Oh my dear boy," Aziraphale said. "I don't know how we were ever worried about you."
Think of a hug. What happened next was nothing like that at all. Warlock could feel Brother Aziraphale in his body alongside him, but then he shifted and his angelic essence wrapped itself around Warlock's soul, engulfing him in light and warmth and memories and love. He could see – not the right word at all, but the closet we have available to us – Nanny Crowley saying "The boy's meant to name it. Um, Stalks-by-Night, Throat-Ripper, something like that." Warlock could see himself at all his worst moments – save for the ones in the past year. He saw himself throwing screaming tantrums, running through the house breaking things, ripping up the plants in the garden, all of that and more. But there were other images too, much stronger images. Warlock at his birthday party, lovingly doting on Sister Cat. Running through the garden laughing. Sitting quietly absorbed as Nanny told him a story. Watching in awe as Brother Robin ate straight out of his hands. Walking hand-in-hand with Nanny and Brother Francis and smiling as though there could be no better possible place in the entire world to be.
"Oh," Warlock said, collapsing to the ground. Angelic love is a very heady, overwhelming thing. And that's in the normal way of things, when it's broad and all-encompassing and rather remote. This was very specific angelic love focused for and on Warlock alone and applied directly to the source. Warlock sat on the ground with silent tears streaming down his cheeks, which was a remarkable show of composure really.
"Oh dear," Madame Tracy said, coming back in the room. She crouched down next to Warlock, but her hands fluttered somewhat pointlessly; she wasn't entirely certain if he was safe to touch at the moment. "I'm sorry it took so long to clear the rest of them out. The spirit hasn't hurt you, has he?"
"Madame, I would never hurt a child, and I would most certainly never hurt Warlock," Aziraphale said with a level of affronted dignity that can only be achieved by someone who knows they are lying. He managed to justify it to himself by claiming it wasn't an actual lie; he would never directly hurt a child, just perhaps indirectly plot their demise and only when the situation called for it. The actual truth, one that not even Aziraphale recognized about himself yet, was if it came down to the end of the entire world versus the life of a child, he would indeed be willing to pull the trigger, so to speak. That's what comes from broad, all-encompassing, rather remote angelic love. Unless that child was Warlock. Then, while Aziraphale would very much prefer the world didn't get destroyed, he would willing die protecting Warlock while the boy was actively in the process of destroying it. That's what comes from the other type of love that currently had Warlock sitting on the floor in tears.
"I'm alright," Warlock said. He wiped both his cheeks with the heel of his palm. He smiled, and while it was rather wavering, it was undeniably happy. "The spirit's Brother Aziraphale, one of the two people I was trying to find. See, look." Warlock got up and stood in front of the mirror. Instead of Warlock's reflection, Madame Tracy saw Aziraphale, who gave her a cheery wave in greeting.
"Well," Madame Tracy said. She looked back and forth between Warlock and the reflection of Aziraphale. "Well. I suppose I better make us all a nice cuppa, and the two of you can explain this all to me."
Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell woke up some time later feeling dazed and confused. His disorientation was not at all helped by the strange very girly boudoir, complete with a pile of stuffed animals and a pink whip, he'd woken up in. He stumbled out into the main room where he heard to voices talking to each other.
"So what exactly do you propose we do about this?" the Jezebel asked. By this Madame Tracy meant she wanted to know how she, Aziraphale, and Warlock were going to solve the problem of the imminent ending of the world.
"Given the circumstances we're both going to have to be extremely flexible," replied some southern pansy. By this Aziraphale meant he and Warlock were both going to need to work together cooperatively to successfully navigate their current body-sharing situation. He was then going to go on to say something along the lines of needing Madame Tracy's assistance in getting to Tadfield – neither Aziraphale nor Warlock could drive, and public transportation was both far too slow at this point and something Aziraphale was only slightly better at than Warlock – but that was when Shadwell interrupted.
"Get your hands off her, you…" he began quite threateningly, only to trail off when he came around the corner and found only the Jezebel sitting with a young boy who couldn't possibly have been the one speaking a moment ago. "Where is he?"
"Who?" Madame Tracy asked.
"Some southern pansy," Shadwell answered. "I heard him, making lewd suggestions."
Aziraphale sat up straighter in Warlock's body and said, "Not just 'a' southern pansy, Sergeant. The southern pansy."
"Does that mean Nanny really is a boy now?" Warlock asked, which was such an apparent non sequitur that it actually managed to momentarily confound Shadwell's accusations of demonry and witchcraft.
"Technically Crowley and I are both entirely sexless beings, but his overall presentation in the past year since he saw you last has become largely masculine, yes," Aziraphale said. "But I don't see what that has to do with… oh." Warlock felt his cheeks flush.
Before he could ask what that was about, Shadwell, having regained his steam, interrupted once again. "Demon! You know what this is? Four fingers, one thumb. Now you get out of that boy's head before I blast you to kingdom come." He held his hand out in front of him in a mock gun configuration and pointed it at Warlock.
"That's the trouble, Mr. Shadwell. Kingdom come. It's going to," Madame Tracy explained. She walked over to the kettle, so she could pour a cup for Mr. Shadwell as well. "Mr. Aziraphale and Warlock have just been explaining it."
"Warlock!" Shadwell cried. "Warlock! You foul temptress. Do you mean to tell me you've invited a warlock and his demon master in right under my own roof?"
"It is my flat, Mr. Shadwell," Madame Tracy reminded him.
"And as I tried to tell you before, I am not a demon," Aziraphale said. "I am an angel of the Lord. And Warlock is just the boy's name. He's not a witch, he's… my ward."
"Oh aye, and I meant to believe that when he's got his familiar right there plain as day," Shadwell said. He pointed at Sister Cat, who was currently batting at the feather toy Warlock was dangling for her. Then he remembered he was meant to be threatening the demon with his hand, and pointed it back at the warlock. "And how many nipples have you got, boy?"
"Mr. Shadwell!" Madame Tracy gasped.
"He is a child," Aziraphale said, crossing Warlock's arms protectively.
Shadwell was used to people being off put by that question and so was not deterred. "He's a witch is what he is. And if he isn't, then you won't mind me giving him the pin test."
"Oh very well. In the interest of time, I suppose you can prick his finger. If you must," Aziraphale said, though Warlock's arms did not come uncrossed until Warlock offered his hand himself.
Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell was much more invested in the glory of the cause of the Witchfinder Army than he was making money – he wouldn't be in the Witchfinder Army these days if he wasn't – so the pin he used to prick Warlock's finger was solid steel, not one of the trick retractable ones. Warlock didn't say ouch, but only because as an eleven year old he thought he was too old to be saying ouch over such little things. He did draw his hand back quickly though, and there was a flash of pain in his expression. It was enough that Shadwell judged him to have passed.
"Alright," he said, tucking his pin back into his pocket. "But I've got my eye on you, boy." Shadwell then promptly took his eye off Warlock, allowing Aziraphale the opportunity to discreetly run his thumb over Warlock's pricked finger and heal it.
"Well now that that's settled," Madame Tracy said, handing Mr. Shadwell a fresh mug of tea. She settled gracefully back into her chair. "You were saying about the Apocalypse Mr. Aziraphale?"
So Aziraphale explained again about the Apocalypse and the Antichrist. It worked out rather well as explaining it to Sergeant Shadwell led to him having the idea to have Shadwell take out the Antichrist, which everyone agreed to without too much convincing. Aziraphale thought it was a good idea, or at least an acceptable one, because they were getting down to the wire rather and he didn't see they had any other options left. Shadwell was just excited to be able to take out an actual witch with so many nipples. Madame Tracy was going along with it because Aziraphale had neglected to mention the Antichrist was an eleven year old boy. And Warlock was, despite everyone's best efforts, still a bit American and as such felt the Antichrist was a bad guy and bad guys ought to be shot.
Once that was sorted and a suitable weapon – the Thunder Gun of Witchfinder Colonel Dalrymple – had been found, the five of them, including Sister Cat of course, went out to Madame Tracy's electric scooter.
"Oh," Madame Tracy said, looking down at the scooter which had very clearly designed only to carry one person, maybe two. It certainly wasn't large enough for two adults, one child, one very stuffed messenger bag carrying a kitten, and an over large gun. "This is going to be a problem, isn't it?"
"Well I have to go," Shadwell announced. "I'm the one to kill the witch." He hefted the Thunder Gun for emphasis.
"Warlock, perhaps it's best if you wait here," Madame Tracy suggested.
"Yes, indeed," Aziraphale agreed. "This could get very dangerous, my dear boy, and I would hate for you to get hurt."
Warlock gave Madame Tracy a distinctly unimpressed look. He knew Brother Aziraphale couldn't actually see the look, but he could feel it well enough on Warlock's face. "If I don't go, Brother Aziraphale can't go either."
"Right," Aziraphale said. "Forgot about that. This is a very unusual situation; it's taking some getting used to. Madame Tracy, strictly speaking we don't need-"
"You're not taking my scooter without me," Madame Tracy said. Truthfully, under different circumstances she might have lent it to them, but it was quite out of the question at the moment. As much as she might adore funny old Mr. Shadwell, she was very aware he wouldn't be any use as a guardian to young Warlock. And Mr. Aziraphale might have suited, but at the moment he didn't have his own body, which was bond to be limiting on his abilities to look after a child properly. "Warlock dear, it might help if you leave your things here. I promise they and Sister Cat will be perfectly safe in my flat until we can come back for them."
"No!" Warlock said, clutching his bag to himself as though mortally offended. He was gearing himself up to have a good tantrum about the matter if necessary, but Aziraphale interrupted.
"We don't have time for this," he said sharply. He snapped his fingers and a helmet appeared on Warlock's head. Then he passed his hand over the scooter, and while the three humans would swear that the scooter hadn't changed in the slightest, it was also very obviously large enough to easily accommodate all of them now. He threw Warlock's leg over the scooter, settled the bag in Warlock's lap, and looked at the other two expectantly. "Well, come on now. Let's get a wiggle on."
It took another five minutes to get a proper wiggle on, because Madame Tracy's scooter hadn't been top of the line even before it had gotten frightfully old. But with another miracle from Aziraphale, soon the five of them were flying to Tadfield Airbase, quite literally speaking.
