Free (A Charm of Magpies 1)The Magpie Lord by Kj Charles

said. “I’m becoming hopeful this was just Miss Brook’s imagination after all. If we sit on that bench, will it collapse under both our weight?”
    “Probably.” Crane tested it. “Maybe not. So is that how it works, you draw on the flow, the ch’i , to do magic?”
    “More or less, yes.”
    Crane contemplated that. The stone bench was cold under his legs, and there was a chilly breeze rustling the rose bushes. Day shifted on the bench, curling a leg underneath himself, stretching his hands reflexively. Crane could feel his warmth, very close.
    “Can you, ah, strip other people?” he asked idly, and felt Day become suddenly still in the darkness.
    “Why do you ask?”
    “There was a…they called it a plague,” Crane said. “Bodies found looking like, well, Egyptian mummies. Dead. Someone I knew, and had seen two days previously in perfect health, turned up in his bed apparently starved to death. The authorities said it was a plague. The locals said it was a chiang-shih , a…damn, what’s the word? Walking corpses that drink blood.”
    “Vampire?”
    “That’s it. But Yu Len insisted it was wugu . Harmful magic. A bad shaman. And from what you just said about stripping yourself…”
    “Yes. Well, you’re right, or rather, your shaman knew his business. You can strip other people, or drain them in a number of ways. But it’s utterly illegal. Wrong. It’s more or less the definition of a warlock. Any idea what happened?”
    “It stopped eventually. I heard someone had decapitated a corpse in the cemetery which was thought to be the culprit.” Crane looked round. “I’m now waiting for you to tell me there’s no such thing as walking corpses.”
    “I’m sure you are,” Day said, and gave his snag-toothed grin as Crane shot him a look. “Let’s just say you’re unlikely to meet one.”
    The garden at the end of the long dark passage was a soft grey of waving grass in the moonlight, with the empty plinth squat in its centre, framed by the solid stone pillars of the pergola. Crane wondered what Day saw.
    “Since we could be here for a while, and you did say it was a long story, would you tell me about the tattoos?” Day said. “Specifically, about being forced to have one. I’ve been wondering about that for days.”
    It was an involved story, veering between farcical and exciting, and Crane knew he told it well. He couldn’t see the smaller man’s face as clearly as he’d have liked, but the shaman was rocking with laughter in the darkness as Crane reached a height of absurdity, making the old stone bench wobble alarmingly. Crane straightened a long leg to brace a foot against the ground, glanced down the passageway, and sucked in a sharp breath that cut off Day’s laughter instantly as he whipped round to look.
    The Rose Walk was completely dark, the thick overgrown brambles that wound over and around it cutting off the moonlight, but the figure walking up it was as visible as if it were day. He wasn’t glowing, he was simply there, easily seen, solid.
    He was Hector Vaudrey.
    Crane jerked backwards on the bench. His hand found Day’s, and he involuntarily gripped it, feeling the instant sharp needling of his skin as a comfort. Day’s fingers closed on his, and Crane heard his rapid, shallow breathing.
    Hector was much, much older now. When Crane had last seen him, he was a handsome man in his early twenties. The portrait showed him just a few years later. The figure that reeled and stumbled up the stone path was ageing—still solidly built, but fat replacing muscle, his face lined and pouchy.
    And he was insane, it seemed. He shouted silently at nothing Crane could see, raging and cursing, hands grasping the air, thrashing, plucking at his collar, grabbing his hair and pulling it down hard around his temples. He kicked and jerked angrily, stumbling as much sideways as forward.
    He was coming towards them. Crane’s entire body cringed away. He couldn’t breathe. His fingers