Grimoires of london 3, p.1
Grimoires of London 3, page 1
Grimoires of London 3
DB King
Copyright © 2023 by DB King
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
v001
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Contents
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Contents
Series by DB King
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
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Support DB King on Patreon!
Series by DB King
Apocalypse Knights
Crafter’s Fate
Death’s Chosen
Dragon Magus
Dragon Rider Chronicles
Dungeon of Evolution
Elemental Mastery
Fatehaven Farm
Grimoires of London
Kensei
Mage’s Path
Night Guild
Ranger’s Magic
Shinobi Rising
Spellweaver Codex: Elder Mage Chronicles
Summoner’s Shadow
The Last Magus
The Lost Mages
War Wizard
World End
Prologue
With an air of great concentration, Alfie Coates inserted a gnarled finger into one of his ear canals. One rheumy blue eye narrowed as he rotated the finger forty degrees counterclockwise and gave it a waggle. He grunted, adjusted his angle by another five or so degrees to starboard, and tried a wiggle. He gave an almost inaudible groan of satisfaction, extricated the digit from his ear, and inspected the diggings with the air of one of the cognoscenti.
To his right, a woman who was sitting at the table nearest to his and Reg Jenkin’s looked on in a sort of mute and fascinated horror. A spoonful of sticky toffee pudding was poised, forgotten, halfway to her mouth. It was unlikely, Reg thought, to get any farther after she’d had a front row seat to one of Alfie’s public aural excavations.
“I swear, Reg, mate,” Alfie said, “there are some days when you could whack what I find in my lugholes on one of them spinny tables that potters and hippies use and shape yourself a fairly decent coffee cup.”
“You’re a horrible man, Alf,” Reg replied blandly, wiping his lips with his paper napkin.
“Nonsense. Nothing wrong with a bit of an earwax build up. Perfectly natural function.”
“Maybe, but shoveling it out with that yellowed talon you call a fingernail in public like that. Well, I suppose as far as culture goes, you’ve always been a bit of a blank canvas.”
“Old Beryl, may the old hag wither in the fires of Hades, probably would have agreed with you on that score,” Alfie said, calling up the name of his late wife with the air of a Russian gangster mentioning the name of a certain Keanu Reeves character.
“It’s not very respectable,” Reg said.
“Speakin’ of respectable,” Alf said, looking around. “What in the name of Aunt Bessy’s Yorkshire puddings did you drag me in here for?”
“It’s a reputable and above-board gaff.”
“How is that possible?” Alfie asked. “It’s full of politicians.”
The two men were sitting inside a pub. This in of itself was not strange. The two old friends spent much of their time in pubs, and the St Stephen’s Tavern was not dissimilar to a lot of them. The interior maintained a traditional and cozy English pub atmosphere, complete with dark wood paneling, brass fixtures, and stained-glass windows.
It was, as Alfie had observed, full of politicians and journalists. Being situated where it was, it was the natural choice for London’s political movers and shakers to come in and drown their guilt after a day spent grinding the noses of the poor.
“I just thought the warm and inviting ambiance harked back to the Victorian era, which is what makes it such a popular destination for locals and tourists alike,” Reginald said. “And, most likely, makes you feel like a little boy again, doesn’t it?”
“Cor, that’s hilarious that is. You’re only two years younger than me, you old git.”
Reg chuckled. “Well, it’s a nice spot, isn’t it? And I thought it’d be just the ticket after walking all day. We can get a nice bit of fried fish and some chips to go with these pints.”
The two old men went back to reading the menus. They had, the staff of the tavern had noted, been studying them for a good half-hour already, though with very little success.
“Why are there always so many things to choose from?” Alfie complained. His finger stopped halfway down the burger column.
Reg peered over to see where he’d got to.
“Cripes, are you on the burger section already?” he said.
“Yeah, but that’s only because I bypassed the salad section and decided to skip anything that sounded even remotely foreign,” Alfie said. “Nachos? What’s one of them when they’re at home, eh? Sounds like some strain of the foot fungus or somethin’.”
He and Reg looked out of the window their table was positioned by and into the bustling London street beyond the glass. Night had fallen. Despite the drizzle, the pavements were teeming with folk hurrying along with umbrellas open and coat collars turned up.
The St Stephen’s Tavern held a prime position directly across from the Palace of Westminster and offered breathtaking views of Big Ben and the iconic Westminster Bridge.
“You know they changed the name, don’t you?” Reg said.
“Eh?”
“They changed the name of the tower old Big Ben’s in. It’s Elizabeth Tower now. Not St. Stephens.”
Alfie frowned. “Pretty sure they did that over ten years ago, mate,” he said.
Reg grunted and signaled to the young bloke with the tattoos who was moving between tables.
“Two more pints of ale and two fish and chips, please, sonny,” he said.
“I’m actually a lady, gentlemen,” the waiter-turned-suddenly-waitress said archly.
“Sorry, love, I haven’t got me glasses,” Reginald said.
“They’re on your head you daft bugger,” Alfie pointed out.
Grumbling, Reg slipped his spectacles on. He didn’t say anything, but he was still unconvinced that the lass in front of him wasn’t a bloke and just pulling his leg.
“Would you like the Atlantic-caught fish or Mediterranean?” the waitress asked.
Reginald looked at Alfie.
“The first one,” Alfie hazarded.
“And would you like the artisanal Himalayan sea salt or the sun-dried Icelandic lava salt for your chips?”
Reg held up a hand to stop the girl. “We would like fish that has been fried, accompanied by potatoes that have been cut into chips and also fried,” he said loudly, in a voice he had last used to explain to a Spanish tourist which way it was to Piccadilly Circus.
“With a side of peas that have been mushed into mushy peas,” Alfie added helpfully. “And vinegar. Off you go.”
With a patient smile, the waitress disappeared.
“Bloody hell, why does everythin’ have to keep gettin’ harder and harder?” Alfie said under his breath when the young woman had gone.
“Blimey, I’m surprised she didn’t ask if we’d like our fish gently serenaded with a rendition of ‘Under the Sea’ by their resident flutist before it took its dive into their artisanal fryer?” Reginald said, shaking his head.
Alfie chuckled and lowered his pint by a couple of inches.
Reg readjusted the tweed cap he never went anywhere without and sighed. “So, how have you been, Alfie? Give me the gossip if it’s not going to send me to sleep.”
“Like you need my help going to sleep,” Alfie retorted. “I do recall you nodding off over a scone when we were watching the cricket last weekend.”
Reg made a ‘get on with it’ gesture whilst he was seeing to his own pint.
“Well, I suppose there’s not much to report,” Alfie said musingly. He pulled out the pipe that he didn’t smoke anymore and chewed on its stem for a moment or two. “Apart from that business on the Thames a few hours back? Did you see that? Bunch o’ muppets frolicking around in there altogether?”
&n
“That’s what the news people were sayin’,” Alfie said.
Reg narrowed his eyes at Alfie. It was a shrewd look and was marred only slightly when a prolonged, high-pitched parping sound came from under the table. Reg’s expression relaxed.
“And you call me ’orrible,” Alfie said.
“You don’t reckon it was a terrorist what-do-you-call-it?” Reg asked.
“Nope.”
“Why’s that, then?”
“Well, it didn’t look like it. And I saw it in the flesh as you might say.”
“You did?”
“Yes, sir,” Alfie said. “Was ankling across the bridge when it happened, coming to meet you. I didn’t feel a single jolt under my feet.”
“And you would have,” Reg said, nodding. “You’ve got the balance of a ruddy three-legged tortoise crossing a frozen lake.”
Alf, staring out into the darkening street, grunted. “Maybe. Anyway, I didn’t see anything that might have been an attack. And I’d know one if it was about. Beryl wasn’t exactly slow off the mark when it came to physical violence.”
The two men lapsed into a shared silence as they contemplated Alfie’s spouse, who had fallen off a cruise ship some years before.
“You know,” Alfie said slowly. “I couldn’t help but think at the time that there was something familiar about those buggers in the Thames.”
“Familiar?” Reg asked.
“Aye. Like I recognized ’em. Something about the lad who looked to be leadin’ ’em struck a chord in me. Plus, when they got out of the river and were diving into the back of that Land Rover, I saw that this old bloke that I swear you and I have seen before.”
Reg adjusted his dentures and then asked, “Seen him where?”
“Ah, well that’s just it, isn’t it, my old china? Not a dicky bird on that score.”
They drained their pints and then ceased their chat while a waitress—who may or may not have been the same one who had taken their order—came over and deposited their fresh drinks on the table.
“Well, a regular Agatha Christie mystery, eh?” Reg said, waggling his wiry eyebrows at his old companion.
“What’s been going on in your neck of the woods since last I had the ill fortune to clap eyes on you, then?” Alfie asked.
“All right, so you know how my little gaff has a deck at the back of it?”
“A deck?” Alfie asked.
“I guess it’s a deck. It’s slightly elevated in the air like,” Reg said. “You walk out there, and you’re not on the ground.”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I remember.”
“Anywho, I just found out that I’ve got a bunch of bloody badgers living under the bloody deck.”
“There are no badgers in Lewisham!” Alfie scoffed. “You’re off your onion, you silly old sod!”
“I’m telling you that I do!” Reginald said. “I thought the bloke from the council was having a laugh myself, but apparently, the cheeky little shits can be found in Kew!”
“Anyway, they’re a problem are they?” Alfie asked, shaking his head in amazement.
“Too right they are! I don’t know how you feel about badgers, Alf, us having never spoken at length about them.
“I don’t like ’em,” Alfie admitted with the vehemence of an old man who wasn’t about to admit that he had gone his whole life without forming an opinion on something. “Never have.”
“I don’t like them either,” Reg said. “I don’t want to kill them mind, but I’d like them to leave. Or I’d like them to die.”
“Right…” Alf said.
“So badgers are pains in the arse, right, or so this council chap tells me,” Reg went on. “But they’re adorable too, in a grouchy old man, Kenneth Grahame kind of way. So, it’s a bit of a quandary dealing with them. They’re very winsome, but they will turn your garden into the Somme.”
“They’re like the opposite of a squirrel, then?” Alfie said. “A squirrel is good value and annoys people with bird houses—always good—but, to my mind, they ain’t good looking. A bit ratty. I would never say the Creator, if there is such a geezer or lass, made a mistake, but I’m gonna ask him about squirrels for sure.”
Both old men paused as another waitress, who may or may not have been a newcomer, came over and presented their fish to them.
“Cheers, love,” Alfie said. “Better bring two more beers when you’ve a mo. Watching this old fogey over here eat friend fish without his dentures in is not something a man should be sober for.”
The woman laughed lightly as Reg scowled across the table at Alfie.
“Anyway, I decide that I want these badgers gone, okay?” Reg said. “I don’t know anything about animal control, though—”
“Never!” Alfie exclaimed in fake feigned astonishment.
“—so I talk to this council chappy. I’ve never spoken with him about badgers, but now I come to have a proper gander at the young fellow, I notice how when I start mentioning such things as humane eradication and the like, his eyes just light up, and I think to myself that I’d bet you killed forty this month alone.”
“They can be bloodthirsty these days,” Alfie said. He was frowning out of the window at something across the street.
“Badgers?” Reg asked.
“No. Your average young fella,” Alfie clarified.
“Ah, yes.”
“So, what did you?” Alfie asked. He had to speak loudly over the growing volume of chatter and sycophantic guffawing that was emanating from a pack of brogue-wearing, pinstripe-sporting political creatures that had just clumped into the pub.
“Well, I just up and asked him, ‘How do I get rid of these badgers under my deck, young man?’”
“Straight to the point. That’s very unlike you, Reginald.”
“Well, Antiques Roadshow was about to start, so I couldn’t have him dithering about forever, could I?”
“Fair enough.”
“And this chap said to me, he said, ‘Do you want to do it the easy way or the hard way?’”
“Too much going to the cinema will have you talking like that,” Alfie said, shaking his head and continuing to peer out of the window.
Reg made an agreeable sound through a mouthful of mushy peas and fried fish. He swallowed and said, “Quite right. I said to him, ‘That’s a tough one. Let’s start with easy, eh, lad?’ He goes, ‘All right, guv, all you’ve got to do is put a little fox urine out there.’”
Alfie turned away from the window for a moment to look at Reg.
“This is the easy way, is it? Fox urine?”
Reg rolled his eyes, spearing a chip as if it had done him a personal injury.
“I said, ‘I’m buggered if I want to get to grips with the bloody badgers, and you want me to hunt down a fox and get its urine somehow?’” Reg said. “This young dimwit says to me, like I’m some kind of decrepit old fool, ‘No, guv. You just buy some.’”
Alfie chuckled as he ate some of his own meal and washed it down with beer.
“I think us and him must be going to different stores,” he said after he had swallowed his mouthful. “I’ve never been in the Sainsbury checkout line and thought to myself that I’ll get a packet of Digestives and some fox urine while I’m here.”
Reg pointed at Alfie with his knife as if his friend had hit the nail on the head.
“I was a bit taken aback at this, so I go, ‘Where do you buy it, lad?’ He says, ‘I know a guy.’”
“I don’t know if you want to go tryin’ to buy unregulated, hand-jared fox urine from a stranger, Reg,” Alfie said. “Sounds dodgy to me.”
“Precisely my thoughts,” Reginald agreed. “‘And then what?’ I says to this young plonker. ‘I just walk into my back garden like a bloody priest and start splashing it about like holy water from an aspergillum?’”
Alfie grunted with laughter as he worked on a particularly crunchy bit of fish.
“‘I can’t believe I’m saying this,’ I told this bloke,” Reg continued, “‘but what is the hard way? If the easy way is extracting the urine of one of the UK’s apex predators, what in the world is the hard way?’ He goes, ‘Well, you know how badgers don’t like scotch bonnet chilis…?’”
