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  The Cedarstone Chronicles

  Cursed

  The Cult of Osiris

  The Ancients

  The Cedarstone Chronicles Books 1-3

  Arcane Inc.

  Warlock for Hire

  Warlock Wanted

  Short Story Collections

  Horrors from Cedarstone

  Horrors from Cedarstone II

  Horrors from Cedarstone III

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  WARLOCK FOR HIRE

  ARCANE INC. BOOK 1

  SEAN STONE

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER ONE

  The lights in the hall dimmed and the cheesy spiritual music began to play. I’ve been to a few psychic medium acts and you’d be surprised by how many of them start this way. Or maybe you wouldn’t, who knows? I was surprised the first time I attended one of these shows. The music always sounds like it would be more at home being part of the ghost train at Brighton Pier. What surprises me more is the fact that nobody ever gets up and leaves; I almost did the first time I heard it, but I was working and had to stay. I suppose once you’ve invested money in the ticket — which is always overpriced considering more than fifty percent of the time you’re going to end up doing more work than the medium — it’s a little harder to walk out, you want your money’s worth. I can understand that, after all, half the reason I come to these shows is to make money. The other half… Well you’ll find out soon enough.

  A woman with curly blonde hair and a thick pair of plastic glasses walked onto the stage. Who ever was responsible for sound effects didn’t turn the music down until she was already talking. Amateur. It wasn’t just that that gave her away as an amateur; it was also the cheap hall she’d rented and the fact that her name was unrecognisable. Sally Wenshaw — I’d never heard of her. Then again I haven’t heard of a lot of people. As soon as I heard Sally speak I instantly detested her. It was nothing she said, just her profession in general. I can’t stand these people that claim to have psychic abilities and then use blatant trickery to swindle people out of money. It’s as much the customers fault as it is hers in my opinion. Anyone who falls for this crap is an idiot. You might be offended by that comment. Maybe you’ve fallen for a fraudulent psychic or medium’s act before. Well I stand by what I said. If you’re offended by being called an idiot then you should probably stop reading because I am most probably going to call you an idiot again. Or worse. Who knows? Anyway, back to the point. What was I saying? Ah, yes, mediums. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that all mediums and psychics are frauds. There are real ones. But they are hard to find. Mediums aren’t. Communing with the dead is easy enough for someone with the power — I have the power, you might see me use it some time. Psychics on the other hand are very rare. Trust me on this, people search the world for seers —that’s what they’re generally known as, not psychics — and most people are not successful. Seers are very useful things, they can see the future, the past, things in distant places. So you can understand why a person might want to get their hands on one. I knew a seer once, they died. Hit by a bus. They didn’t see it coming, not in either sense. That wasn’t a joke, it really happened. Anyway, I’ve digressed again. I’m probably going to do that a lot, so you’ll need patience, but trust me it’s worth it because you are about to be treated to a real cracker of a story. I should know — I’m in it.

  So, who am I? Eddie Lancaster, director of Arcane Incorporated. Sounds mysterious and important eh? That’s the point. And no, it’s not really a company, more of a one man show, but Arcane Inc just has a better ring to it. Don’t you think? I’m basically a warlock for hire. Need something supernatural? Come to me. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Warlocks are bad right? Wrong. Well, no they are bad. Most anyway. But I’m a different kind of warlock. A unique kind of warlock. A one of a kind kind of warlock. I’m what you’d call a natural warlock. Ordinary warlocks are sorcerers who steal magic from other sorcerers. In order to steal said magic they must kill said sorcerer. So you can understand why warlocks are naturally associated with badness. I, however, do not kill. I was born with the ability to just take power from a sorcerer. No killing, no hurting. Just a clean old swipe. I don’t just go around swiping power either, that would also be wrong. Plus it’s a little harder than a simple swipe. I only take it with consent. Except with bad people, evil people. If we cross paths I take their magic. For my own protection. You’re probably wondering now, when does somebody give me consent to take their magic? Well I could tell you, but I’ll be able to show you if you wait until later. For now, back to Sally.

  She stood front centre of the stage, eyes closed, one hand pushed to her forehead. The classic medium pose. “I’m getting something,” she said, a hint of northern in her accent. “It’s a letter.” It’s always a letter. “An a.” She opened her eyes and looked around the audience. I once knew a medium who literally went through the alphabet in order until she found somebody to invite on stage. Surprisingly she got all the way to “s” before someone stood up. This time was different. As she’d instructed, all the people with an “a” anywhere in their name stood up. She said that earlier when I was waffling about warlocks.

  My name is actually Edward so I stood up with the other half of the room. Things would get pretty awkward if I was called up though.

  “Now, bear with me whilst I try to get another letter,” Sally said and resumed the pose. I really hoped she wasn’t going to drag this whole thing out. The show was only billed as being forty minutes long. Not that they usually ran full length when I attended. “I’m getting a… ooh, it’s another a,” she said, and all but one man sat back down. “You must be Aaron,” she said gesturing for the man to come up on stage. The audience applauded. They actually applauded. Of course his name was Aaron, how many other names have two fucking “a’s” in them? Actually Alan does. So does Adrian. Alright I take that back, there are some other names with two “a’s”, but not many.

  Aaron made his way onto the stage and stood before Sally. He was a short man, barely a foot taller than she was and he had a greasy sort of pervert look about him. You know the one I mean. Don’t deny it, you do.

  “The spirits are saying all sorts of things about you,” she said, with a coy smile. Contrary to what seems to be popular belief you do not inherit psychic abilities upon death. You still only have the knowledge that you experienced in life. So why so many people think that spirits have all the secrets of the universe is beyond me.

  “What are they saying?” Aaron asked eagerly. This ought to be good.

  “Things best not said in front of everyone here,” Sally said rather disappointingly. “Now, I’ve got somebody here who wants to talk to you. He’s saying he’s your grandfather, has your grandfather passed away?”

  I’d like to point out that Aaron looked like he was at least fifty so the chances of his gr
andfather being alive were slim to none. I was pretty sure that Sally was a fake, but I had to be certain before I crashed the show. That meant enduring more of the appalling act.

  “Yes, he has,” Aaron said, nodding sadly.

  “Hmm, I think he’s saying it was ten years ago?” she suggested. I liked how she phrased it as a question. Some psychic.

  “No,” Aaron said, shaking his head. “Two years ago.”

  “Two, yes of course, he says he was only joking.” The whole room erupted with laughter. Unbelievable. People really do believe what they want to. “He liked a joke didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, he did,” Aaron said, he nodded fondly as if they were actually having a reminiscent chat about his grandfather. I mean seriously, who doesn’t like a joke? Even Hitler liked a bit of slapstick.

  “He’s telling me… he died of cancer. Is that right, love, was it cancer?”

  Aaron nodded and looked down at the floor. I wanted so badly for her to try to be more specific, but I knew she wouldn’t, they never were. Cancer is a pretty broad category when it comes to guessing the cause of death. When they try narrowing the field it alway ends badly. Unless they’re actually psychic of course.

  I was nearly ready to jump up and bring an end to the whole charade. All I was waiting on was a Barnum statement. What’s a Barnum statement I hear you say? Let me tell you. A Barnum statement is a statement so broad it could literally apply to anyone. Horoscopes are full of them. Seriously, next time you see a horoscope try applying any sentence to everyone in the room. No matter what zodiac sign they are the statement will work.

  “He’s telling me you’ve got something in your pocket,” Sally said. That was a surprise to me. Was she actually about to exhibit some real psychic ability? “He’s saying you’ve got some…” I was on the edge of my uncomfortable plastic chair, waiting to see if she was actually about to guess what was in his pocket. “…Loose change?” I slumped back down. What man doesn’t have loose change in his pocket? Aaron nodded enthusiastically and the audience applauded yet again. I very nearly considered not opening their eyes to the trickery, but that wouldn’t do me any good. And at the end of the day it was me that I was here for. Not them. I might as well tell you now, I’m a fairly selfish person. You’ll find out soon enough.

  “Right, Aaron, he’s going to tell me a bit about you now,” she said. “Give us a moment. Right, here it is. He’s saying… He’s saying he remembers how you were often a quiet chap, but then at other times you could be the life and soul of the party.”

  “Ding, ding, ding!” I shouted, jumping to my feet and pointing straight at the stage. Everybody turned to look at me, their faces a tableau of astonished horror. The man who was sitting next to me jumped right off his chair. “Barnum statement! There we have it folks, our Barnum statement.”

  “Sir, please return to your seat,” Sally said, trying to usher me back down.

  “You Madame, are a fraud!” I shouted. I shuffled past the people next to me and made my way into the aisle. “You do not have a psychic bone in your body.”

  “Psychic ability is not held in the bones,” she said loftily.

  “You wouldn’t know anything about where psychic ability is kept you dirty little charlatan,” I said. She was right, though; it’s not kept in the bones. I strode up the aisle and hopped up onto the stage. I could tell by the run down venue, and the cheap ticket price that Sally Wenshaw could not afford security. Nobody was going to interrupt my interruption.

  “The spirits are warning me about you,” she said all of a sudden, once again raising her hand to her forehead.

  “What are they saying?” I asked with mock intrigue.

  “Things I’d best not say out loud,” she said shaking her head. “But nothing good I can assure you.”

  “I’ll tell you what, if you can tell me Aaron’s grandfather’s name correctly the first time, I will take back my accusation and leave,” I offered. I already knew that she wouldn’t take my challenge. If she failed, she’d be ruined for sure. At least in Maidstone she would be. She could start a fresh in the next town and not return here for a good year or so. By that time people would’ve forgotten.

  “I have nothing to prove to the likes of you,” she said indignantly.

  “But I bought a ticket,” I replied, equally indignant, but mine was more mocking.

  “Your interruption has voided your ticket,” she said.

  “Didn’t say that in the terms and conditions,” I argued. “Anyway, I’ve had enough of you. Go to sleep,” I said and snapped my fingers in her face. The audience gasped and Aaron leapt across the stage as Sally collapsed in a heap on the floor. Her body was going to ache when she woke up. She deserved it. I turned to the audience.

  “Sally Wenshaw is a fraud,” I announced, with a grand flourish of my hand. “I, as you have just seen, am not. I am magical. My name is Eddie Lancaster and I can help you with all your esoteric needs. And that includes talking to the dead.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a business card. I threw it out and as I did so the single card multiplied and over a hundred cards rained down on their heads. I’ve only ever paid for one business card. Magic’s handy like that. With my piece said, and my demonstration given I strolled out of the room, a little disappointed at the small number of people who were actually pocketing my card.

  Yes, that’s right. I didn’t come here to save these people from scandal. I came here to increase my customer base. I warned you at the beginning that money was half the reason I was here. Like I said, I’m selfish. It’s all about me. It is my book after all. Besides, if it makes you feel better, I never get much business from events like this. Just enough to keep me going.

  So there you have it. I’m Eddie Lancaster. Warlock for hire. And this, is just one of my many, many adventures. No. No. That’s too cheesy. Even for me. I’m sorry. I cringed when I said that. I promise if you read on I will try my best not to say any more cheesy sentences. I’m probably going to fail though, so just read on anyway.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I woke up the next morning to nine voicemail messages on my phone. That was the usual amount after a marketing event like last nights. Most of the callers were not genuine. I’ve learned that about eighty percent of the people who respond to my exhibitions just want to take the piss. I don’t know why. They must just have nothing better to do. On this occasion, seven of the callers were time wasters which mean two of them were real. I offer a whole load of services; communing with the dead, tracking people, enchantments and spell-breaking to name a few. Prices vary depending on how much time and power I have to use.

  One of the callers, her name was Ashley Something — it’ll come to me — wanted a power removal. In case you hadn’t figured it out, that’s where they pay me to take their powers away. That’s my natural gift remember so it’s pretty easy to do. Surprisingly, power extraction is one of my more popular services. There are a lot of young sorcerers who just want to be normal. Most are teenagers who feel like freaks, they want to be like their friends. Boring. Plain. Totally human. I can’t think of anything worse. Still, it’s not my place to dissuade them; all I do is take the money and do the job. If they change their mind, they can always have the procedure reversed. For a price. Stop judging me, I’m a businessman not a charity worker.

  The other caller was named Shay — not Irish, despite his name — and he neglected to tell me what he wanted. That was common. People got nervous about dealing with a warlock. They needed a little easing in, a little massaging so to speak. When they were nice and relaxed they’d tell me what they wanted. I decided to take the easier of the two and gave Ashley a call. We arranged to meet at lunch time.

  I gave myself a quick shower, threw on some clothes and got ready to go. There was still quite a bit of time before the meeting, but I liked to get there early, have a bite to eat and think about life. It’s healthy to do that, a psychologist or someone said that to me once.

  As I headed for the front door I ran ri
ght into Doris. I should explain the situation. I do not have my own place. I rent a room in a house that belongs to a barmy old lady. It’s cheap and it suits my needs. Sure I could do with a bit more space, but that would cost a bit more money. A lot more actually, I live in Maidstone and property’s pricey here. The house is quite nice, the only downsides are Doris and her waste of a space son. Doris—despite being a little old lady—is incredibly loud. I’m not joking. She stomps everywhere she goes. She slams every door she closes. She coughs all the time. And her singing is atrocious. Her name isn’t really Doris, but I’ve been calling her Doris for so many years that I’ve forgotten what her real name is.

  Now, her son, Gavin, is also very loud. The difference is he seems to be nocturnal. He sleeps all through the day and then gets up at night and starts making a racket. He plays dreadful music. He cooks using every pot and pan he can get his hands on. And often he invites all his friends round. What’s really good is when he makes so much noise that he wakes Doris up and then two of them are downstairs making a racket and arguing with each other. Why don’t I just use magic to block the noise out I hear you say? Well, because I don’t like to. You see, every time you use magic you become just a little more reliant on it and each step you take in that direction the more magic you crave. For a warlock, that is a very dangerous path to start down for obvious reasons. That’s not the only reason I don’t like to use magic unnecessarily, though. Magic has a way of worming its way inside you. It finds what lies at your very core and it brings it to the forefront. A lot of the time there is something very rotten at the core of a person’s being, and magic will just bring that out. It’ll turn the person rotten and soon they’ll be gathering magic and using it for everything — and it’s rarely anything good. I haven’t been a saint so far in my life. Yes, that’s right, I’ve done bad stuff and I’m probably — certainly — going to do more bad stuff. Despite my friendly, laid back nature so far, there is actually a very nasty darkness that is buried deep inside me. That sounds terribly melodramatic, but it’s true. So if you think I’m the hero in this little story then you are sorely mistaken.