As soon as James returned to his flat he abandoned the sandwiches on the kitchen table and changed into jeans and a hoodie. He poured himself a more than generous measure of Glenfiddich single malt whisky, downing half of the amber liquid in one disrespectful gulp, instead of taking the usual appreciative sip to savour the smooth, rich, mellow taste of the expensive drink.
James sat down heavily on the sofa, placing the glass of whisky on the coffee table in front of him, and placing his elbows on knees covered his face with his hands. His body vibrating as his emotions began to catch up with him.
"For fuck sake," he shouted into his hands, moving them to fist in his hair and pull at it savagely. "I don't want it, I don't fucking want it," he yelled, the last word catching on a sob as he discarded the punishment on his hair, moving his hands to rub harshly at his eyes with the heel of his hands.
"I don't want it," he repeated in a whisper as he leant forward again and laced his fingers behind the back of his neck, rocking himself forwards and back.
His father had been an estate manager, his mother a homemaker and both of them had been Traditional, as had all of his family. Not one single solitary drop of magical blood flowed in his family's veins, and by some bizarre freak of nature he had not just been born Magical, but born with the power of all the Magic's.
To make matters worse he had also been cursed with a near genius intelligence, and his parents had no idea how to handle either affliction, so he quickly learnt to keep both concealed. Or at least he tried to, but every so often the magic would slip out. When he was ten he started to see spirits, when he was eleven he opened a vortex, to this day James had no idea how he had done it, how he had known the right words to say. It was the one and only time his father had physically punished him, striking out in terror and fear of his son.
He had learnt to better control his magic after that, heading into the copse of woods a mile or so away from the estate buildings when he felt the pressure build, secretly plying his Magic, but feeling guilty that he had given into it.
James took a shuddering breath and sat up, grabbing the glass from the table and finishing off its contents.
He felt guilty now for not using his magic, for letting Lewis down and lying to him by way of omission. Why the fuck couldn't he have been Traditional. He jumped up from the sofa and started to pace, biting at his thumb nail as he paced back and forth, six steps, turn, six steps, turn, six steps, over and over again. His mind whirled as he tried to figure out what to do.
When he had first entered the Order of Priests he had been elated, for the very first time in his life he had started to feel that he belonged. It was a simple life, the monastery had no electricity or running water and provided for itself, growing its own food and kept livestock for meat, milk, cheese and eggs. It was a way of life that James quickly grew accustomed to, his hesitant use of magic encouraged and praised, and his thirst of knowledge satisfied when he was appointed apprentice Priest Scribe. A mere six months into his training and he was to become a future keeper of Priest history and his days were filled with hard work, magic and shelf upon shelf of ancient and modern texts.
It was in these manuscripts that James learned the views the Order held about Necromancers and how they dealt with what they perceived to be a blasphemous evil. Making him even more grateful of the years spent concealing his true magic and that his hesitance of using his powers had kept him from revealing it to the priests and other trainees. The Order had thankfully no idea that he had the power of all the Magic's, especially Necromancy, James only having shown his power of Telekinesis whilst in the monastery, acutely aware that the other trainees had only one power.
With no one to turn to for advice, James left the Order after his first year of training, much to the shock and surprise of the monastery Priests. The Priests had tried to dissuade him from leaving and had they know about his necromancy, he doubted they would have let him go so easily. Telekinesis was amongst the more common magic's and so the Priests had released him from the Order.
And now he found himself agonising over whether to open a vortex or not. To practice the very magic that had terrified his parents, that was considered a scourge by the Priests and was so unknown by those outside the Order, that even if it was accepted, he would still become a freak, a media curiosity, never to find the peace and true acceptance that he so desperately yearned for.
But to open the vortex and call forth the homeless victims spirits could provide him and Lewis with the means of catching the killers and ensuring there were no more victims. They could find out their names, if they had family to claim them, to give peace and closure to.
James had learnt more from Lewis in the few months he had become his bagman than he had with DI Knox in twice the length of time. Lewis had given him an opportunity to shine, to at last gain the trust and respect of the other sergeants and the junior officers. When Lewis reprimanded him it was behind a closed door and not overheard by the entire Incident Room.
Lewis had become his mentor, had become someone he could trust with almost anything, he could show his intelligence, was allowed to follow his hunches, and knew that he was trusted by Lewis in return.
And today he had taken one of the biggest leaps of faith ever by showing Lewis some of his magic and the older man had been enthralled, happy even, to see James wield it.
James stopped his pacing and headed for the kitchen, rummaging in the cupboard under the sink until he found a box of six white candles, he pulled one out and headed back to the living room, snagging last Friday's edition of The Oxford Times and placing it in the centre of the coffee table. He sat crossed legged in front of the table and lit the candle, holding it at an angle over the paper so that large globs of wax fell onto it, slowly rotating the candle around so that it burned evenly. Once enough hot wax had accumulated he pushed the base of the candle into it, securing it to the newspaper.
With a sigh of disgust he stood up and moved to pull the curtains shut, sending the room into semi darkness, the candle flame burning brightly. He grabbed a pen and pad of paper from one of his overflowing bookshelves and sat back down.
He focused on the flame, breathing slowly in and out. The throbbing in his head, brought on by exhaustion and whisky, slowly ebbed away as he concentrated on the flickering flame. His hands cupped his knees as he continued to breathe evenly, clearing his mind of everything except the flame.
The words flickered through his mind; he closed his eyes and allowed them to form, magic jolted through his limbs and he opened his eyes to see the vortex forming. Although the word vortex conjured up an image of the Realms clashing and fighting in a flurry of turbulence to exist in the same place it was in fact nothing more than a simple shimmer, making the wall in front of James look distorted.
"I call forth the spirits in the Forbidden Realm to hear my call," James said out loud, his stomach clenching with nerves," I seek those who in this Realm had their lives ended in violence within the walls of Oxford these past seven days," James had no idea if this would work, he had never actually called for a spirit from the Forbidden Realm before and had only the guidance of his magic to steer him in the right direction. He could feel a tremor start to run through his hands as the effort, to not only open but sustain the vortex's stability, started to take its toll.
"Bloody hell," a voice suddenly yelled out, "you're the copper?" The vortex shimmer fluctuated in broad waves for a moment before solidifying and three spirits stood just inside the vortex threshold. All three were grey haired, their faces lined with age and the abuses of addiction.
James stared at the sight before him, unbelieving that he had successfully called forth the correct spirits.
"Well? Are you or aren't you?" the spirit he met this morning asked.
"Erm…..yes, I'm Detective Sergeant James Hathaway, Oxfordshire Police," James stammered out. "I'm investigating your murders and I...I wondered if I could ask you some questions."
"Weren't too keen to know this morning," the spirit replied sarcastically.
"Yes, I'm sorry, but you were telling me about how you died and you can't do that," James explained in a panicked rush," you'll spend an eternity in torment if you reveal the manner of your death to someone from the Other Realm….." James broke off with a frown as all three spirits started to laugh.
"Man, who told you that," replied the spirit in the middle with a laugh and a shake of his head.
"Not true then?" James asked as he blushed with embarrassment. He couldn't recall when he had first been told the now obviously false bit of information; but it must have been when he was young, as he'd just seemed to have known it forever.
"No, lad, it's not true," the first spirit confirmed in a kindly tone. "There's no torment in this Realm, just peace. Us telling you our stories is just going to add to our contentment, especially if you catch those murdering buggers."
By the time James had finished taking their statements he was starting to shake badly from the effort of keeping the vortex open, it was an added effort to keep his cramping right hand from shaking so that he could write coherently.
Between the three of them the spirits had been able to give descriptions of all three assailants, their movements during the day of their death had been harder to piece together, but James had been able to establish two places that connected the three men, he even had their proper identities and names and last known addresses of family members.
He had just finished writing the last of the family members names when he felt the vortex start to fade, he stretched out his trembling left arm in an effort to channel his concentration, his breathing coming in ragged pants as he fought to keep it open.
"Let it go, lad," Mike, the newly identified, first spirit advised, "you've got all the information we can give you. Just…let us know, yeah, if you catch 'em," he asked as the other two nodded in agreement and together they all stepped back from the vortex threshold, it shimmered for a moment, and then gently dissipated as if it had never been there.
James slumped forward, resting his forehead on the coffee table, his arms hanging limply by his sides as he gulped in air. He turned his head and looked at the sheets of paper filled with his handwriting and smiled. He'd done it; he'd gotten them some leads, something for Lewis and him to get their teeth into, to track down the murderers. It had been an effort, his body sagging with exhaustion, but a sense of achievement ran through him, that he'd been able to put his curse to good use.
He slowly lifted his head and blew out the candle, plunging the room into pitch blackness, with the help of the coffee table he pushed himself to his feet and stumbled to the wall, hand groping for the light switch, squeezing his eyes shut at the sudden glare of the light as he flipped the switch.
Still squinting he shuffled into his bedroom and flopped down on the bed still fully clothed, with a groan he pulled his mobile from his back pocket and set the alarm. He frowned when he noticed that it was only five pm, he let out an astonished breath, he'd held the vortex open for more than five hours.
He placed the phone on the bedside table, and rolled onto his back, his last conscious thought was how the hell he was going to tell Lewis about the statements he'd taken.
James flung open the door of the building and stumbled down the steps, uncaring of the startled looks he received as he made his way hastily across the morgue's car park, only stopping once he reached the dubious safety of the pavement. He gulped in the cold winter air, trying to control his rising panic as he fought to undo his collar and loosen his tie. As he paced between a rubbish bin and lamp post he patted down the pockets of his suit jacket and trousers with trembling hands only to come up empty as he realised his cigarettes were in his overcoat pocket, which was still inside the morgue.
With a groan of despair he ran his hands through his hair, his right moving to clutch his forehead as he curled his left into a fist and started to hit the side of his head with hard punches.
The morgue was always full of spirits, bizarrely deciding to leave their bodies as the post mortem was about to be performed, resulting in terrified apparitions. Several of them would figure out that he could see them, could talk to them and they either begged him for help or they condemned him for being what he was, lashing out in fear and horror.
James despaired over why he couldn't maintain his mental shields, why he couldn't shut them out. He had expelled more magic yesterday then he had in his entire life, without the constant pressure of the buzzing magic he should have been able to re-establish his shields easily, but something else was stopping him and for the life of him he couldn't figure out what.
"That's enough of that," a voice told him sternly as his left forearm was grabbed in a painful hold and pulled away from his head, he jerked round to come face to face with Lewis. His right arm dropped to his side, his face flushing with mortification.
"Sir I... I'm…," he darted a glance around, suddenly very aware that he stood next to a busy road on a very public pavement, his flush deepened. "Sir, I'm sorry, I…." it occurred to him that he had no idea how to explain his behaviour.
"Bloody freezing out here," was all Lewis said as he released his grip on James' arm and handed him his coat and scarf.
James slipped into his coat, patting the pockets to reassure himself that his cigarette pack and lighter were indeed there, before hanging the scarf loosely around his neck.
"Think we need to have a chat, James," Lewis told him firmly. "Come on," Lewis turned and started to walk back towards the car park entrance. James automatically fell into step beside him although his heart pounded in his chest; the thought of going back inside the building making his stomach churn painfully as he struggled not to hyperventilate.
"I'm sorry, sir, I can't," he said as he stopped halfway back to the building, causing Lewis to turn and look at him. He opened his mouth to explain but ended up closing it and shaking his head, taking a step backwards.
He couldn't help the flinch when Lewis reached out and grabbed his elbow failing to register that the grip, though firm, was gentle.
"It's alright," Lewis said calming, taking a step closer, "we're not going back inside, just heading for the car," he reassured, gently tugging at James' elbow, "expect the morgue is teaming with spirits today, what with the audit and the M40 crash, poor buggers," he added sadly.
James stopped dead, pulling his arm free as he stared at Lewis in horror.
"W what?" he stammered out.
"I know you can see the spirits, lad," Lewis replied evenly. "Time for you to stop hiding and for us to figure out what we're going to do about it, eh? Can't carry on like this."
James followed numbly behind Lewis as they headed for the car, feeling that he had no other choice, that he had nowhere to run to, his mind awash with scenarios, and each one worse than the other.
Could he convince Lewis to keep his secret, so that he could quietly resign, move away, and start again? But where, doing what? What if Lewis told Innocent, she'd undoubtedly tell the Chief Constable and then what? They couldn't openly discriminate against him, but perhaps he could offer to resign in return for their silence? Or maybe having a Necromancer in the Police Service would be seen as an asset? They would go public, create a media circus … and the Order of Priests would find out.
Robbie looked over at Hathaway slumped on his sofa; the lad was bent forward with forearms on his knees staring resolutely at the living room carpet. Robbie felt his heart clench at the dejected sight it made.
"Here," he said, handing Hathaway a plate with a slice of toast and marmalade on it, he placed the tea on the coffee table, and headed back into the kitchen for his own brew and one of the dining table chairs so that he could sit in front of Hathaway while they talked.
"Thank you, sir, but I'm not hungry," Hathaway said as Robbie made himself comfortable across from him, putting the plate on the table between them. "Sorry, sir," he mumbled.
"You're going to be nothing more than skin and bones the way you're going on," Robbie replied gruffly.
They sat in silence for a few moments, Hathaway with head bent continuing his intent stare of the carpet between his feet and Robbie with no idea what was going through the lad's head and floundering on how to get the conversation going.
"How did you find out?" Hathaway suddenly said, sitting upright but still avoiding eye contact, "That I'm a ….Necromancer."
"Laura first pointed it out," Robbie replied carefully, expecting the look of shocked horror as Hathaway finally looked at him. "She noticed how you acted around murder victims and in the morgue, but it didn't seem to be the bodies themselves that bothered you. Once we kept a closer eye on you, it became obvious that you were seeing something that no one else could and then you started to talk to them," Robbie smiled, "all discreet, like."
"Not discreet enough," Hathaway muttered bitterly.
"Laura noted that you never used your magic and being a trainee Priest you would have had a strong magic," Robbie forged on, "She thought it was bad for you, keeping it all inside and I …" Robbie let out a huff of laughter, "I just couldn't understand why you hid it. My Val was invited to join the Priests…."
"Your wife?" Hathaway interjected, looking dazed.
"Aye, our Val," Robbie smiled, "she turned them down, obviously. But she used her magic every day. She could be in the kitchen cooking the tea and changing the sheets on the beds at the same time. Should have seen it in the mornings," Robbie reminisced, "clothes whizzing about the place, breakfast and packed lunches being made in the kitchen, Val refereeing the kids and me stirring me bloody tea with me finger hovering over it and mumbling out the words," Robbie grinned at the memory. "And try sleeping in when she didn't want you too," he added with a chuckle, remembering fighting with a duvet that wouldn't stay put.
"My family were all Traditional, centuries old Traditional," Hathaway said quietly, dropping his gaze, "they didn't know what to make of me. I used to sneak off and practice my magic in the woods, learned how to do some of it properly with books from the library."
"Must have done enchantment classes at school?" Robbie asked carefully, grateful that Hathaway was talking, but terrified that he would put his foot in it somehow and make the lad clam up.
"Village school," Hathaway explained, "only had two teachers, infants and juniors. They taught all the subjects, they were both Traditional as well, so enchantment class was just reading from books, it was all theory and not very advance."
"What about secondary school?" Robbie winced internally as he noticed Hathaway tense up.
"Went to private school, sir," he replied readily enough, "won a full scholarship to The Blessed Lady Academy," he added with a self-deprecating smirk.
"Ah," Robbie commented, recognizing the famous name. The academy was a leftover relic of the time of Separation. Where you lived, if you received an education, what job you held, who you could marry, was all dependant on whether you were Magical or Traditional. A social experiment that had lasted less than a hundred years and had been abandoned for over half a millennium, but the Blessed Lady had somehow managed to survive and cling onto the basic Separation principle.
Tucked away in the vast countryside of the Oxfordshire/Warwickshire border, it prided itself on turning out well educated Traditional's, able to compete with the Magical for positions of power and wealth. The Academy had fought for years to keep magic out of its ancient halls, be it pupils, enchantment classes or even history, teaching its own version, focusing on Traditional achievements only. Through riot, siege and social upheaval it had managed to survive but had finally lost its battle after years of legal wrangling. It became the last school in the country forced to accept the implemented laws on education and discrimination and become a mixed school, teaching the national curriculum, in 1998, after Hathaway had left.
Robbie felt his heart break for the young lad sat in front of him, fingers interlocked and squeezed almost white in an attempt, Robbie presumed, to stop from fidgeting.
Born of strong magic, Hathaway had never been encouraged and never instructed how to use it, the lad was purely self-taught. Robbie took a steadying breath as he prepared himself to ask the question that all his instincts told him were the real start of the young man's problems.
"What about the Priests?" he asked quietly, "must have been a haven when you joined, able to use your magic, shown how to do it properly? With magic like yours you could have become the Priest Chamberlain."
Silence hit the room again, only the sound of Hathaway's suddenly ragged breathing breaking through it.
"James, I know we haven't known each other that long," Robbie said, "but we've been through a hellva a lot and I know that what you've told me today, you wouldn't have told me if you didn't feel you had to," Robbie moved to perch on the edge of his seat, reaching across to gently curl his hand around the younger man's forearm, causing Hathaway to look up at Robbie with such misery reflected in his eyes that Robbie almost gasped out loud.
"I swear you can trust me, lad," Robbie promised, "I hope over the months I've proved that to you and whatever you tell me, it'll go no further, unless you want it too," Robbie stressed.
"Sir, I … I've never had anyone to tell this to," Hathaway replied as he shook his head, "I didn't think anyone would believe me, not even you, sir."
"Try me," Robbie suggested confidently, giving Hathaway's arm a squeeze before leaning back into his chair.
"When I was in my last year at university I … I saved a woman's life," Hathaway started hesitantly, "I used magic to do it and a Priest saw me. He sought me out, we talked and he invited me to join the Order. I liked what he told me, so after I finished Uni, I did."
Hathaway paused for a moment, rubbing his hands together nervously. Robbie resisted the urge to interrupt and clarify certain points, but it wasn't an interrogation after all, and Robbie feared doing so would put the lad off, or he would only get the edited version and Robbie knew that Hathaway needed to tell his tale in all its glory and at his own pace.
And so Robbie let James talk, hoping thatin doing so Robbie would prove to him that he could help him, that together they could get to the bottom of why the lad was seeing spirits, having guessed that Hathaway's shields were failing him, otherwise he wouldn't have fallen apart so spectacularly at the morgue.
"You're right, sir, it was a haven. I loved it," Hathaway continued sadly, "it was a basic way of life, no mod cons, not even running water. Had to fetch what we needed from the well. The Priests were patient with me, I was so reluctant to use my magic, but they never pressured me, letting me find my own pace," Hathaway paused as he ran a hand through his hair, Robbie noting that it trembled.
"They made me the apprentice Priest Scribe, it was a huge honour and I had virtually unrestricted access to their library," Hathaway smiled wryly, "I truly thought I couldn't get any happier, sir," Hathaway stopped speaking; chewing on his thumbnail, a habit that Robbie had already figured out the lad did when distressed.
"But then something happened?" Robbie prompted quietly as the silence descended once again.
"When I was studying the library," Hathaway continued after a moment, his hands now cupping his knees," I came across manuscripts that detailed the trial and executions of Necromancers, they were very detailed, sir." Robbie noticed that Hathaway's breathing was becoming ragged again. "I …I realise that the trials were what happened centuries ago and I thought it was a good thing that the Priests didn't try and hide the past, that they accepted the darkness that once surrounded them. But I found new texts and books mentioning the same type of tortures and the last entry I found detailing a Necromancers death was dated 4th May …. 1989," Robbie stared at Hathaway in shock. "I'm sorry, sir, I swear everything I've told you is true. I'll resign. I'll leave Oxford, but please sir, I beg you not to reveal what I am to anyone, "Hathaway blurted out in a rush, his face stark white, fear emanated from him in waves.
"Don't be daft, lad," Robbie said more harshly than he meant as he shook himself free of his shock, he swiftly stood up as Hathaway bolted to his feet, managing to grab the younger man and halt his progress.
"I didn't mean it like that, James," Robbie hurriedly reassured. "Of course I believe you. I have no idea what we're going to do about it, but I believe you."
He pushed Hathaway back down on the sofa, Hathaway sitting down almost boneless.
"No wonder you left," Robbie said with sympathy.
"I had no idea if I could control that part of my magic, I couldn't take the risk," Hathaway replied wretchedly.
"So why can't you control it now?" Robbie asked, "Why are you seeing spirits? Or have you always seen them?" He asked as the thought suddenly occurred to him.
"Yes, sir," Hathaway replied forlornly, "I used to be able to shut it all out, but these last four months or so I ….I can't."
"We've been working together for just over six months," Robbie said cautiously, not quite sure where he was going with it.
"I don't think it has anything to do with you, sir," Hathaway said with a genuine smile, albeit a small one.
"Laura seems to think that keeping all that powerful magic inside, it's got to be doing some harm, needs releasing regular, like," Robbie haltingly tried to explained.
"But I used my magic yesterday, and it hasn't made a difference," Hathaway replied his tone full of despair as he lent his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes.
"Well, it wasn't a lot of magic, not really," Robbie replied, "Expect you'll have to use a lot more than that to start making a difference." He frowned as Hathaway suddenly sat up straight.
"I opened a damn vortex yesterday," Hathaway stated angrily. "I held it open for five hours! How much more magic have I got to use to get control of my shields again?"
"You opened a vortex?" Robbie asked in astonishment. "Why?"
"We didn't seem to be getting anywhere with the case, sir," Hathaway replied, his anger draining away to be replaced with contriteness. "We had no real identities on the victims, no witness', waiting on forensics and you were disappointed with the results the Second-Sighter gave us, sir. I thought….."
"You'd open a vortex and call forth the spirits," Robbie summed up as he interrupted, "You've done it before though, haven't you?"
Hathaway shook his head. "No sir, I opened a vortex when I was a child just for a few moments, last night was the first time I meant to do it, I didn't know if I could call the spirits, if it would work."
"Which you obviously did," Robbie replied. "You spoke to the spirits," he added with certainty
"Yes sir, "Hathaway replied cautiously, "I spoke to all three," He pulled a sheaf of papers from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. "They gave me their statements and their identities and next of kin details and I think there are a couple of good leads we can look into, sir." He held out the papers to Robbie, who took them and started to scan through them.
"Good work, James," he praised, looking up just in time to see Hathaway flush with pleasure, "We'll go through these in more detail after we've had some lunch," Robbie watched as Hathaway's expression morphed into one of anxiety. "Don't worry, any leads we track down we'll put down to the gift of Second-Sight, how's that sound?"
He smiled as Hathaway nodded in relief.
"Which leaves us to sort out you," Robbie assessed.
"Me, sir?" Hathaway asked in puzzlement.
"Yes, you sergeant," Robbie said in exasperation. "Well, until we can figure it out you're staying away from the morgue, can't guarantee you won't run into the odd spirit at a crime scene, of course and you're also going to go make an appointment with your doctor, for today," he added, giving Hathaway a stern look, "rule out anything physically wrong with you. You're also going to start to get a full night's kip every night, eat three meals a day and practice a bit of magic every day," he reeled off.
Robbie smiled as Hathaway's expression fought between annoyance and gratefulness.
"I don't know what we're going to do about the Priests, lad," Robbie said seriously as he sat back down with a sigh. "As long as we keep your Necromancy under wraps you should be safe, but sooner or later, we're going to have to do something. Although right now, I don't know what," Robbie admitted.
"They've been getting away with it for centuries, sir," Hathaway replied. "Not sure a couple of local coppers are going to be able to do to stop it."
Robbie reluctantly nodded his agreement. "Well, first off, let's get this case solved and you sorted and then we'll talk about the Priests." Robbie stood back up, "But as you've rejected me culinary skills," nodding towards the plate of cold toast, "we best go and get some lunch from the pub, then we'll get to work on these," he finished, waving the papers Hathaway had given him.
Robbie moved out of the living room, Hathaway on his heels and grabbed their coats and scarves. He noticed that Hathaway seemed calmer, more centred even and Robbie smiled to himself, they weren't out of the woods yet, but at least they seemed to have found a path that would eventually lead them out.