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Synopsis

On the streets of Boston, the world is divided into the ordinary Usuals, and the paranormal Unorthodox. And in the Department of Unorthodox Affairs, the Auditors are the magical elite, government-sanctioned witches with spells at their command and all the power and prestige that comes with it. Grimshaw Griswald Grimsby is... not one of those witches.

After flunking out of the Auditor training program and being dismissed as "not Department material," Grimsby tried to resign himself to life as a mediocre witch. But he can't help hoping he'll somehow, someway, get another chance to prove his skill. That opportunity comes with a price when his former mentor, aka the most dangerous witch alive, is murdered down the street from where he works, and Grimsby is the Auditors' number one suspect.

Proving his innocence will require more than a little legwork, and after forming a strange alliance with the retired legend known as the Huntsman and a mysterious being from Elsewhere, Grimsby is abruptly thrown into a life of adventure, whether he wants it or not. Now all he has to do is find the real killer, avoid the Auditors on his trail, and most importantly, stay alive.

Excerpt

One

I'm not sure what I did to deserve this," Grimshaw Griswald Grimsby said, "but I'm sorry."

He stared at his tutu in the cracked mirror. It was pink. Not just calm, natural, happy pink. Aggressively pink. The kind of pink that made infants cry and attracted bees. The fabric was drawn taut overtop his T-shirt, pulling the material tight until it scratched uncomfortably against the faded burn scars that marred much of his left side.

Carla, the restaurant manager, shrugged her broad shoulders. "Taco Tuesdays aren't pulling in the folks like they used to," she said. "We need something shocking to get people's attention."

"I do magic," Grimsby said, turning his back to the mirror to examine the handmade taco-shell wings that had been stapled haphazardly to the back of the tutu. "Real magic. How is that less shocking than this?"

"People can see magic anywhere," Carla said. "You're not the only witch in the world, Grimsby, and you're far from the best."

"Then why hire me at all?"

"You're the only one who applied. Now, if you want to continue working for Mighty Magic Donald's Food Kingdom, turn around and let me fix the back."

Grimsby most definitely did not want to continue working for Mighty Magic Donald's Food Kingdom, but he turned around anyway, his eyes falling to the floor. The lacy skirt didn't bother him as much as the clutching, constricting fabric did. He danced uncomfortably from one foot to the other, trying to dislodge things from places where he preferred no lodging take place.

Carla had suggested he exchange his jeans for tights, but he had decided that was not going to happen. The last thing anyone needed to see were his pale, skinny legs. Well, perhaps second to last.

"It's just once a week," Carla said, "and only until Taco Tuesday picks up again! Although, if it does really well, we could just make it Taco Fairy Tuesday. After all, Wizard Pie Wednesday is a hit . . ."

Grimsby tried to imagine wearing the outfit once a week for the foreseeable future. It hurt him the same way it hurt when he had found his first gray hair more than a year ago. At nineteen. It was a deep hurt, with a pain that held every indication of only getting worse with time.

"I will quit."

"And go where?" she asked, picking at a crease in the eye-punching-pink cloth.

"There's lots of places hiring the Unorthodox," Grimsby said, his tone defensive.

She scoffed. "Sure, but they're not being hired to be Unorthodox, Grimsby," she said. "They're being hired in spite of being Unorthodox. Therian accountants. Vamp security guards. Outside of the Department or maybe private contractors, no one's looking to hire a witch."

Grimsby felt his throat go taut, but he clenched his jaw. "You are."

"Not a real witch. Just-one like you," she said, the words without malice, but that somehow made them hurt worse. "After all, you're barely licensed to use magic at all. You've got, what, spinning plates and that magical duct-tape trick?"

"They're not tricks," Grimsby said quietly. They were real magic. His magic.

"Whatever. Look, no one who doesn't want a witch will hire you, and anyone who does want a witch can find a better one. You're stuck with me, and I'm stuck with you."

He wanted to argue, but she was right.

He had spent most of his childhood training to join the Department of Unorthodox Affairs. After they had denied him entry, he hadn't had many options. It had taken him nearly a month just to get this job. People weren't exactly banging down the doors to hire failed witches. Or any witches, for that matter. Outside of strict, Department-regulated capacities, magic was heavily regulated. So why hire a witch when any Usual would do?

So he couldn't just up and quit, despite how much he wanted to. He needed the work. Bad. Badly enough that he let himself be dressed in costumes three days-make that four-a week. And that didn't include holidays, though after last year's lawsuit he doubted Carla would make him portray Santa again. He didn't have the build for it anyway. What kind of Santa Claus is five six and a hundred and thirty pounds?

The not-so-jolly kind, that was for certain.

He glared at the wings again. Carla had glued thin, brightly colored fabric in the curvature of the shells to replicate taco fixings. She had even liberally applied red, green, and brown glitter for seasoning. Where would anyone find brown glitter, anyway?

"Toad's teeth," he cursed quietly.

"Why do you always swear so strangely?" Carla asked idly, pinning a faltering wing back into place. "It's off-putting."

Grimsby shrugged. "My mother didn't like cursing," he said.

"Must be a witch thing," Carla said without any real interest. "Nearly done. Here." She placed the final, knife-twisting touch into his hand. It was a plastic tube with a rubber avocado hot-glued to the end.

"Is this a pencil eraser?" Grimsby asked, staring forlornly at the avocado.

"You noticed? Darn! I was hoping it was more subtle than that. It's a wand anyhow. Don't you need to use a wand for your tricks?"

"They're not tricks," Grimsby snapped.

"Well," Carla said with a tone and head tilt that insinuated that they were, in fact, tricks.

He sighed. "No, I do not need to use a wand."

"Oh. Have you tried? Maybe it would help with your . . . you know." She gestured vaguely to all of him.

He took a deep breath, stretching the pink cloth to the limit. "Yeah. Maybe it'll help," he said mechanically.

"Good." She stepped back as much as the cramped janitorial closet allowed and examined him one final time. "So, how do you feel?"

He tugged at the constrictive tutu. "Like I need to pay rent," he said.

"That's what I like to hear!"

Grimsby only grumbled.

Tutu, taco wings, and avocado wand. By these atrocities combined, he had changed from Grimsby, mild-mannered children's magician, to an abomination whose name could only be uttered in horrified whispers: the Taco Fairy.

Now it was showtime.

Grimsby sidled out of the closet, ducking under the barrage of reminders Carla shouted after him as she tidied the makeshift dressing room. He let the door shut behind him and leaned against it for a moment, taking a deep breath. He had hoped the air would be fresh and bracing. Instead, it just smelled like burnt cheese and was exhausting.

There was a flushing sound from across the hall and a man stepped out of the restroom, wiping his hands on the front of his pants. His eyes locked with Grimsby's for a brief moment, before they fell upon the tutu and wings. The man nearly choked as he tried to stifle his laughter. He shook his head and continued past Grimsby toward the dining room without saying a word.

Grimsby puffed out a breath through his cheeks. He could handle embarrassment well enough. He wouldn't have made it this long at MMDFK unless he could. He occasionally flubbed his lines or jumbled up his spells. He was a human, after all, and not even a particularly good one.

But he would have appreciated it if people laughed at him because of his own mistakes, not the crimes of others. Then, at least, he might have deserved it.

No one was so low that they deserved the Taco Fairy.

Yet Taco Fairy he would deliver upon them, though it would come at a terrible price.

Minimum wage.

He straightened himself up. Pride was a luxury, but it was also relative. If he was going to wear a pink tutu and taco-shell wings, he was going to wear a pink tutu and taco-shell wings, dang it.

He straightened himself and strolled into the dining area of the restaurant, which was hardly more than a dozen booths and five or six tables. There was a handful of adults scattered around the seats, quietly conversing or staring at their phones. Most were the usual crowd of clean-dressed, casual adults, but one man stood out. He was skeletally thin and of a towering height that made Grimsby feel like a child. He stood in the corner, chewing on an unlit cigarette, his eyes shadowed by a pair of dark glasses.

At Grimsby's entry, a few patrons looked up and were instantly aghast, but not all.

Not enough.

"Ladies, gentlemen, and the guy with damp jeans," Grimsby bellowed, making every head snap his way. "Welcome to Mighty Magic Donald's Food Kingdom! You find yourselves having the great fortune of arriving to our fair land on this Tuesday of Tacos, where the purchase of but one single taco will deliver upon you the bounty of two, that's right, two tacos! Purchase, purchase the tacos and consume them! As I, the Taco Fairy, am empowered by your sated taco lust."

There was little more than stunned silence in the room. The man in the corner quietly chewed his cigarette, his hidden gaze never wavering.

A willowy woman with a prominent monobrow rose from her seat, her hands on her hips. "Where the hell have you been?" she demanded in a tone that was more appropriately aimed at a child than a working adult. "My son's party started ten minutes ago!"

"Ah, but you see," Grimsby said, "I was delayed."

"By what, creep?" she demanded.

Grimsby winced slightly at the word and bared his teeth in an expression that would only pass for a smile in a court of law. With a good lawyer. He felt all need to be reasonable float away.

He imagined it did so on taco wings.

"For Taco Fairies have no wings, madam, but shells," he said, "useless husks full of meat and other, more odious contents. Our life is a waking nightmare. And at night, the bears come."

"Jesus Christ," the woman said, rolling her eyes, "are you a nutjob or just an idiot?"

"Signs generally point to the latter," Grimsby said, "but only generally. Don't worry, ma'am, I'm the best tutu-clad magician in at least a two-mile radius."

"Whatever, I'm not paying you to mouth off."

"Technically, you're not paying me at all, ma'am. My services fall wholly under the purview of the Mighty Magic Donald's Food Kingdom Birthday Package: Extravaganza Level. Terms and conditions may, and certainly do, apply."

She glowered. "Then don't expect a tip from me, fairy boy."

"Of course not, ma'am. I've worked here over a year. I know the drill."

She snorted, revealing a tall gumline yellowed with nicotine. "A year here? I'd kill myself."

Grimsby again donned his most technical of smiles. "We're always hiring. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a show to put on."

He strode past the monobrowed mother, doing a clumsy, yet dramatic spin that left her covered in taco-seasoning-colored glitter. She sputtered angry stammers at his dismissal, and he hurried his step before she could form actual words.

Before he reached the door that led to the massive warehouse turned playroom, a cool hand rested on his shoulder.

"Mr. Grimsby," a gravelly voice said, "a moment of your time."

Grimsby turned to see the skeletal man from the corner standing before him. And a good deal over him. The man seemed like he was a scant few inches shy of seven feet, though perhaps it was partly just how he carried himself. He wore a wrinkled suit jacket that was several different shades of sun-bleached gray. His slacks were an unfashionably dissimilar shade of blue. His face was gaunt, as though he was sick or starving, and his cheeks were covered with white and black stubble, like television static.

Grimsby wasn't sure what to say, so he simply paused and tilted his head. "I'm, uh, kind of in the middle of something."

He saw the man's eyes glance over the tutu even through the dark shades he wore. "Clearly. But this is important."

"Oh, all right. Just make it fast?"

"My name's Mayflower. I'm . . . with the Department. I've got a few questions for you."

With the Department? The last word he had gotten from the Department was a letter of preemptive denial for any further applications to join, and a license for basic magic. That was more than a year ago. "Questions? About what?"

"About who. Samantha Mansgraf."

He shook his head. "Oh no, I want nothing to do with her. Last time we spoke she ruined my life. I don't want to know what she'd do if we spoke again."

"It wasn't a request." The man seemed to grow a few inches taller, though it was likely in Grimsby's imagination.

Grimsby felt himself bristle up, foam wings and all. He had never taken well to bullies. "You sure? Because it sure sounded like one to me."

"You're mistaken." The man's voice was like weathered stainless steel, cold, timeless, and inflexible.

Grimsby's voice by comparison was closer to a creaky swing set in a harsh wind, but he didn't let himself back down. "No, I think you're the one who's mistaken if you think you can come in here and just make demands of me. The Department had its chance to ask me questions, and instead it just sent a letter. I'm done with it, and so I'm done with you."

The man's face darkened, though his expression didn't change.

"Now I'm going to work. I've got bills to pay."

"I think your bill's about due."

Normally, the words might have made Grimsby chuckle in appreciation, but the man delivered them in a way that rendered laughing somehow impossible.

He did find the courage to be flippant, however.

"Oh, scary," he said, rolling his eyes. Though it took some effort. The man was impossibly tall, lean, and oddly terrifying. But he refused to let it show. "But you forgot to dramatically take off your sunglasses when you said it. Really deadened the punch line." He turned and stepped through the glass doors to the playroom.

The man started after him. "I'm not going to ask again-"

"Whoa," Grimsby said, holding out a hand. "Did you even read the sign?"

Mayflower scowled. "Sign?"

Grimsby pointed to the cardboard cutout of King Donald that was fixed against the wall. The king, who had a waffle for a head for some reason, was holding out his royal scepter at about chest level. A sign on his chest read, You Must Be This Young to Enter. Grimsby had set the height himself, and it was just low enough to brush the top of his head.

Mayflower paused. "You're kidding."

"Sorry, it's not my rule," he said, pointing to King Donald. "It's the law of the land."

"You-"

"Law of the land!" he shouted, stepping over the threshold and throwing the door shut behind him. As he walked away, he glanced over his shoulder to see the silhouette of Mayflower in the glass of the door. Even through the frosted glass, the man's eyes seemed as steady as a rifle's scope.

Copyright © 2022 by James J. Butcher

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