Zombie in Corfu

Chapter One – Daisy’s Cat

It’s a beautiful day in Corfu, though you wouldn’t know that by looking at my face. I sweep up my brown curly hair into a loose ponytail and drag a sweaty hand across the back of my sweaty neck. For all the good that it did.

              “What can you see?” Daisy, a half-troll, peers over my shoulder at the grass, her hot breath smelling of sweet mint. She trails a finger up my back, not the first time she’s come on to me, and leans a little closer. Her hair brushes my shoulder, and I step away under the guise of coughing. She is very pretty, undoubtedly, but blondes aren’t my type.

I refocus on her lawn, examining the pink roses that line the picket fence, the broken lock on the gate, and the footprints that only lead out, not in. Boots, wide, like those a man would wear.

“It seems that whoever stole Tiddles either came in via a different entrance, or flew,” I say, turning round and almost crashing into her. I move back warily to reclaim my personal space. Daisy doesn’t get the hint and steps forward, her green eyes wide and sad.

“Will you be able to find him?” she says, a single tear dripping down her freckled cheeks onto the hem of her pink, collared dress.

“I’ll do my best,” I say. A missing cat is one thing, but evidence of stealing with no obvious motive? I have a bad feeling this is about more than just Tiddles, but don’t want to dash Daisy’s hopes just yet.

I also don’t like making empty promises. I ask for half the fee up front and half upon completion, just in case I can’t solve the crime, which happens every so often, much to my dismay. I figure fair’s fair and work’s work, but they shouldn’t have to pay the full amount if they don’t get the answers they’re looking for.

The contingency coins jingle in my pocket, and I wonder whether this will be one of those occasions.

Daisy puts a pink-manicured hand on my arm as I turn to leave. “Violet,” she says breathily, “come back soon, won’t you?” I nod, awkwardly extracting myself from her grip and pushing open the gate, stepping onto the tiled streets of a small, magical town in the centre of Corfu, Sandos. A moped speeds past, captained by a minotaur, as if to prove my point. The road is narrow, lined with houses with chipped yellow paint, stained from age and sand, blown in from the coast. I take a deep breath, the warm air filling my lungs. I love living here.

After I was dismissed from the Magical Intelligence Bureau, MIB for short, I decided to leave England behind and start a new life. Magical communities exist all over the world, but I was drawn to Greece and island living, and knew a friend of a friend (acquaintance, really – I don’t have ‘friends’ as such) who had lived here. I packed up my stuff and spent what little savings I had on the first few months’ rent of a small house on the outskirts. I quickly began to run out of money, but after so many years as a spy, I just couldn’t bring myself to get a normal job, so I lived off scraps and didn’t turn the lights on.

I kept to myself, keeping my old job a secret, initially pretending to the folk that I was just a nomad who loved to travel. But I had started casually dating this earth mage, Esmerelda, who was gorgeous but a little chatty for me. It didn’t last long.

Mid coitus in the throes of orgasmic passion, I gasped out in a fit of unadulterated boasting that I had been a spy for MIB. I left in a bit of a hurry the next morning, hoping she thought I was role playing or something, but the news travelled faster than it took me to walk to my favourite bar for breakfast.

Old Henry the ghoul, who had been sitting next to me on the veranda overlooking the olive grove, tapped me on the elbow, face white and haunted (which is impressive – for a ghoul). He asked me to find out who was haunting his house at night, keeping him up until the early hours with banging doors and eerie whistles.

It wasn’t hard.

His neighbour, Barry, was sneaking up to his window and making ghost sounds; apparently Henry had called him a shit-licker in the tavern a few weeks previous. While rude, Henry wasn’t exactly wrong. Barry was a Boggart after all; they’re known for dwelling in sewers.

Anyway, I brought them together and patched things up, and after that the folk here kept asking me to solve their crimes.

So, I started charging them, and the rest is history. I was an amazing spy, one of the best. But MIB are unforgiving, and I crossed an uncrossable line. So here I am, solving petty crimes for petty cash, debasing myself. I can’t afford to have pride anymore, but still I cringe at what I need to do next.

The door tinkles as I enter the printers’ shop on the corner of main street and nod at the guy behind the counter. Shapeshifter called Mel who turns into a rabbit. Not a particularly desirable skill, though my magic isn’t much better. I’m a fire mage, which isn’t so useful in a hot country.

I open an illustrator programme and copy in a large picture of Tiddles, writing my number underneath alongside a request to call me with any information. One hour later and his chubby, little face is posted all over the village.

Please get in touch if you’re interested in reading more about Violet and Sandos…