The sun was beginning to set, and I'd ruined my trousers.  

Many would think the life of a sorcerer grand - glamorous, even. The stuff of myth and legend, power over mystical forces of the universe, what's not to love, they'd say. Surely, the many would continue, you, Sam Finch, sorcerer, are not currently regretting all the life choices that lead you to be right here, right now, commanding those mystical forces of the universe while up to your knees in what you dearly hope isn't the congealed effluence of humanity? 

The many could shove it up their collective behinds, as far as I was concerned. A fresh slurry from the storm drain behind me sent more gunk splashing up my thighs. I tried not to gag. It'd ruin my sorcerer street cred. 

My antics had attracted a small crowd.  

"What is he doing?" Someone asked, accent all thick vowels and sibilance and not local.  

"Maintenance." Rowan replied. My apprentice was watching me from the safety of the top of the river wall, where the tourists had stopped to see what the strange man on the river bank was up to.  

"Shouldn't he be wearing the, how do you say, plastic legs?" 

"Waterproof trousers?" Rowan supplied helpfully. "Yes, probably." 

I waded a little deeper into the channel made by the drain run-off, resigning myself to the ruination of my clothes. The sludge swirling lethargically around my legs emanated a smell I suspected not even several hot showers and a liberal application of bleach would burn from my skin; if I'd known this was how my day was going to turn out, I would have come better dressed. Beneath the smell, and beneath the foamy crust and unidentifiable flotsam, there was something else. Something a little bit darker, a little bit crueller, rotting just out of sight.  

I took a deep breath, swallowed the urge to puke, and extended my senses into the filth. I'd felt the creeping tendrils of this magic from halfway across the city, but here it was so much worse, clinging to the storm drain, dribbling down the river walls, polluting the river. It was week old bin bags left to rot in the sun and split in the rain, the mildew and slime and urine-stench of an abandoned stairwell, the mouldering mush of too-old fruit. It was a sickness blighting this place, where the magic should run cool and clear and patient along the watercourse. 

And there, just at the edge of the channel, where the storm drain run-off flowed into the river, was the source of the sickness. It lay on its side, mostly submerged. Bubbles popped on the scummy surface as it let out a shuddering, stinking breath. 

I glanced back up to my apprentice. She said a few words to the tourists and they began to disperse, looking a little disappointed. No need for an audience for the next bit. I edged a little closer. What at first had looked like a heap of rubbish, shuddered and groaned. The storm drain burped again, sending more sludge sloping into the river. "Hey, don't worry." I murmured softly. "It's just me, just Sam. Your friendly neighbourhood sorcerer."  

The thing in the drain channel raised its head.  

It was a horse. Or, almost a horse. Dull eyes, weeping oil, looked at me with little interest. A soggy cardboard ear flicked listlessly. A mane, the shredded remains of bin liners and plastic bags, drifted sluggishly in the sewage flow. The creature huffed a breath, and as it exhaled, the smell of rotting meat and sour vomit rolled out of its wide nostrils. I clamped the long sleeve of my jumper over my nose and mouth, like it would help.  

Kelpies were not supposed to look like this. Kelpies were exceptionally proud beings, usually found in the wild streams and lakes up in the highlands. Although not, historically, the nicest of creatures, having the unfortunate tendency to drag unsuspecting travellers into the water and drown them, in recent years, as the cities expanded and warped the landscapes around them as they grew, the Kelpies had learned to adapt. They took up homes in the city storm drains and the urban rivers, and restricted their prey to the homeless, the gangs, and the occasional hapless city worker. Their once white fur turned concrete grey, but they seemed to thrive nonetheless.  

This, though. This was new.  

Careful not to actually touch the creature, I spread my fingers across its wide nose, making soothing nonsense sounds under my breath. I wasn't sure if it understood, but it kept still. I took a breath, and let it go, and with it felt my senses slip from the mundane into the mystical. Magic surrounded the kelpie. This, in of itself, was not abnormal, but the flavour of it, the way it moved, was entirely irregular. Kelpie magic should taste of salt air and pound with the energy of crashing waves; this magic was slow, sick. It pooled around the kelpie and oozed in thick strings from its nose with every breath, a clingy film coating the poor creature from head to hoof.  

Beyond the kelpie, the magic of the river was tantalisingly close, a cool breeze on a muggy day, a soothing silence against a wash of noise. The kelpie had nearly reached it, but hadn’t quite gotten far enough. So, being the sorcerer I was, wielder of mystical forces of the universe and all that jazz, I gave it a helping hand. 

I called out to the magic of the river. We had always been friends, the river and I, and it responded instantly: waves, tiny at first, began to roll, rippling across the river's surface as if disturbed by a sudden puff of air. They gathered height and with every break I encouraged them on, echoing their whispering progress with gentle words, directing their flow up the bank, through the drain channel, and towards the kelpie. As the waves came, they brought with them the river's magic. The sharp stench of sewage burning my nose began to lessen, carried away by a breeze that spoke of journeys through fresh hill and field down to salty sea. The flotsam scum began to separate, each incoming wash carrying a piece of it away. The first touch of clean water lapped against the kelpie's side and it shuddered. Another wave, and it tried to move its massive head, straining towards the water.  

Still the water rose, and I pushed it along, willing the river to cleanse the sickness and the putrescence, to scour clean the grime and the trash. The sickness tried to fight, to coalesce back into a whole even as parts of it were stripped away, but the force of my spell was stronger. Water swirled along the kelpie's flank, rinsing fur free of slime; its torn plastic mane came free, and in its place there was real hair, long and white as sea foam. It let out a whinny, and suddenly it was heaving itself up, getting first its back legs beneath it, and then then front, surging upright in a crash of fresh water. I stumbled back, but continued the spell, let the water flow past my legs and up the drainage channel, devouring every last remnant of blight in that place, crashing against the river wall and tumbling back on itself until finally I could feel the presence of the sickness no more. I let the spell drop, and like the turning tide, the water began to run back from whence it came. There was a moment of silence and stillness as the sound of rushing water returned to the dim background hubbub of a city at twilight, and I swayed a little, slightly dizzy from the spell, taking a moment to pull back from the temptation of joining the river on its journey to the sea.  

The kelpie now stood in front of me. It's whole form seemed slightly fluid, shifting almost imperceptibly like the water in which it lived. Kelpies were dangerous creatures. To touch one was to seal your fate, as your hand fused to their flesh and they used it to drag you to a watery grave. I hadn't often crossed paths with the city's kelpie herd, as they seldom caused trouble or involved themselves in the world outside the drains and rivers, but here we now were. We eyed each other up for a few moments. 

Finally, the creature bowed its head and chuffed gently. 

"No problem, mate." I said. 

The kelpie flicked its tail, and then it was gone, slipping into the river without a ripple. 

I paused before I left, fumbling in my pockets for loose change. A couple of pound coins and some coppers. I dropped them into the water. A small offering for the river this time, but I felt it would forgive me. 

I trudged back to dry land. Street lamps were flickering to life as the sun finally dipped below the horizon, and I picked my way back up the slippery bank by their neon glow. Rowan was waiting for me at the top of the wall. She held out my shoes – which I'd taken off earlier with a hope of saving them from the same doom as the rest of my clothes – and wrinkled her nose in distaste. "You smell like shit." 

"Thank you." I sat on a bench and tried to wipe the worst of the mud and slime off my feet. I felt a little wrung out from effort of the spell, and though the blight had now gone, there was still the phantom taste of it in my mouth. "Remind me again why I didn't send you down there?"  

"'I don't like the look of this, Rowan.'" She said, in a passable imitation of my voice, albeit coloured with her natural Irish lilt. "'You stay here and I'll go be all sagely and heroic and manly while you watch and learn.'" 

"I'm not sure that's how it went." I grumbled. I did my best, but my shoes still squelched unpleasantly as I pulled them on. "Did you at least manage to find some coffee while I was doing all the dirty work?" 

Rowan waved a notepad under my nose. "I was busy taking notes!"  

I squinted at the crumpled paper. It said: 

Horse Unicorn Kelpie? 

Sewage = bad = :( 

Water = good = kelpie = :) 

There was also a doodle of a badly drawn horse, with a crooked snorkel and flippers on each of its four hooves. 

I sighed. 

"Even though I was so busy, what with all the watching and the learning, and the talking to the tourists," Rowan continued, "and because I am the best apprentice in the world, like, ever," A paper cup with plastic lid replaced the notepad. "I found the time to get you coffee."  

"Best apprentice, like, ever." I agreed. The coffee was thin and scalded my tongue, but cleared the bad taste in my mouth and staved off the evening chill that was beginning to seep in through my wet clothes. Summer was nearly upon the city, but when the light faded there was still a briskness to the air to remind the world that spring wasn't quite ready to give over to her favoured sister just yet. Though our immediate area was quiet – Rowan's handiwork, no doubt – further along the embankment at the train station, the last dregs of men and women in their business suits and tired faces mingled with the first eager partygoers in their mini-dresses and polo shirts, creating a merry kind of chaos around the escalators and ticket barriers. The city was beginning to shrug off its industrious daytime buzz, shake its hair out, and start searching for the bar with the cheapest mojitos.  

People stared at the dripping trail I left and gave us a wide berth as we headed towards home. Apparently the smell of sewage was great for generating personal space on a busy street. Rowan trailed a few paces behind, as unwilling as everyone else to subject her nose to eau de kelpie sludge.  

"So, kelpies aren't normally that gross, right?" She asked as we threaded our way past the bars and restaurants and people along the waterfront. 

"No. I mean, they live in drains, so maybe they're a little gross, but today was something else entirely." I slurped more coffee and thought for a while. "Something I've not seen before." Dealing with the chaos caused by the other magical denizens that shared this city was par for the course, but, as Rowan has said, I didn't like the look of this.  

"Even the normies were starting to take note of that one. There was this guy, maybe French? Kinda hot actually. Had to tell him you were, like, a sewage microbiologist to get him to go away.” She went quiet for a moment, then, “What caused it?" 

I shrugged. A little knot of worry started to wind itself in my insides, but I tried to put it down and sound like the authoritative fountain of knowledge I was supposed to be – even if, in this case, I didn't know anything. "I don't know. Maybe it ate the wrong kind of beggar, or something leaked into the drains that shouldn't of. It seemed like it came from the kelpie itself, but mystical pathology isn't exactly my strong suit. I'll ask around, see if anyone's seen anything like it before. In the meantime, there are few things that can't be cleansed by the river." 

Some of the northern sorcerers up in Leeds or Manchester might have a better idea, what with kelpies being more prevalent up there. I'd been meaning to take Rowan to meet more of the others: our kind weren't common, and we tended to spread out, partially to keep an eye on the flow of magic across the world, and partially so that we didn't trip over each other. Sorcerers naturally bent the flow of magic around us, and when there were too many of us in one place for too long, the flow tended to get a bit out of whack. So, we mostly kept to our own cities, or valleys, or hills, or villages – whatever floats your boat – and instead acted as a network of balancing points, keeping the magic in our own areas flowing as it should.  

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

It makes us sound like guardians, watchmen of all things mystical, protectors of the natural order of things. My ego might like the sound of that, but really, it was at the same time both more and less than that. A sorcerer could try and ignore the magic around them. They could turn a blind eye when magical damns broke or sources dried up, wash their hands of a poisoned stream or a backed up flow. They could try not to fix it, and they would fail, for just as a hawk needs to hunt and a fish needs to swim, so a sorcerer is in tune with and directs the flow of the magic around them. It's as inexorable as the passage of time, and to ignore our very essence was to go mad. Or, at least, I supposed it was – I'd never heard of any sorcerer denying their nature long enough to find out.  

We left the waterfront and the bars behind and slipped through less populated streets: shops shut for the day, shutters drawn, but the flats above with lights on and TVs blaring. Rows of Victorian terraces, built tall and thin. Sounds drifted out from open windows, a child's shriek, a badly played guitar, the Radio 4 opera of the evening. Smells of curry, onions, cooking meat, wafting on the evening breeze. My flat wasn't far, perched above a barber shop, the entrance sandwiched between the spinning pole and the newsagents next door. Mr Virdee, owner of the newsagents and my landlord, sat on the front step, smoking a cigarette. He was a tiny man, swamped by his threadbare sweater and battered slippers, wizened mahogany skin in stark contrast to the bright blue turban atop his head. He grinned a gap-toothed greeting as we approached. 

"Been for a swim, Sam?" He cackled, and then coughed as the smell caught up with us. "Bloody hell." 

"Not exactly." I declined his offer of a cigarette as I always did, even as he politely tried not to breathe in, and searched my pockets for my keys. Mr Virdee had long ago ceased to wonder about why I came home soaking wet and smelling of sewage, or the strangely shaped visitors I sometime received at odd hours, or why the mould problem he'd complained to me about in passing conversation had suddenly disappeared that same night. He probably suspected my hand in it, though, as after that he started to give me the leftover bhaajis and samosas he didn't sell in shop for free.  

"How's Devtar doing, Mr Virdee?" Rowan asked, leaning on the step railing while she waited for me to finish faffing around. She also declined the proffered cigarette. Devtar was his wife, maker of bhaajis, definite pants wearer, and the reason Mr Virdee could be so often found smoking on my doorstep – she wouldn't let him do it in the small flat they kept above their shop. 

"She's fine. Joined a knitting class a few weeks ago." He took a drag on his cigarette and made a face. "The jumper she's making has three arms, but I haven't the heart to tell her. Best watch out, Sam, she's threatening to make you socks." 

"I could do with some new socks." I replied, wriggling my toes inside my current wet ones. I finally found my keys in my jacket pocket amongst a handful of old mints, magical charms, and crumpled receipts.  

"Put me down for a scarf, too." Rowan stepped past me as I opened the door. "My nan knits, I'll bring her round some time next week. She mostly does jumpers with cats on; Devtar will love her."  

Mr Virdee grimaced, showing off tobacco stained teeth and a long-suffering patience for his wife's new hobby. "I'll let her know."   

"Thanks, Mr Virdee." Rowan called, disappearing up the stairs beyond the door with a wave.  

"Nice girl, that one." Mr Virdee said, once she'd vanished from sight. "But please don't let her bring her daadee. There's enough wool around the house as it is."  

"I'll try, but if Rowan's decided something, there's not usually all that much I can do to change matters." I patted him on the shoulder. "Chin up, I'm sure the knitting won't last long, and she'll be on to crochet next." 

Mr Virdee groaned, and I laughed, and began to head inside to find some dry clothes. 

"Water's rising, Sam." His voice was low, so low I was unsure at first that he'd spoken at all. 

 "I'm sorry?" 

"Water's rising." Mr Virdee repeated. I paused, one foot in the doorway, and turned back to him, but he was staring at the dark sky, face expressionless. He looked suddenly older, if that were possible, the light from the streetlamps casting weary shadows across his face. A faint breeze stirred the air, and I swear that, just for moment, the background hum of the city dimmed. 

Before I could ask what he meant, he turned to me again, and the shadows were gone and the city noise was just as it had always been. "In the basement. Mould again." 

"Oh." I struggled for a moment, unsure what had just happened. "Err, right. I'll be sure to keep an eye out for it." 

Mr Virdee nodded, and went back to his cigarette. I lingered for a moment, and then trailed after Rowan up the stairs.  

My apprentice was waiting for me at the top. She put a finger to her lips as I approached, and at my silent question she gestured towards my flat. There was a door separating the living room from the stairwell. I usually kept it shut, to keep in the heat, but now it stood open and there was a light on.  

I lived alone. No one else but Rowan had a key.  

I motioned for Rowan to stay behind me. I used that moment of thrumming tension to gather magic to my fingertips. As standards go, I was pretty poor at manipulating magic into offensive forms, but the sheer force of my indignation that someone was in my house was not to be underestimated. Static sparks flared in sympathy along the backs of my hands.  

I slipped into my tiny living room, ready to fight, or to run, whatever the situation might warrant, but it was empty. The light was on, but nothing seemed out of place: my two second hand sofas were still just as lumpy as they had always been, my coffee table still bore my empty mug and a plate of sandwich crumbs from earlier in the day. The kitchen, through an open archway, was dark and quiet. Rowan followed me in as I checked the bedroom and the bathroom – both empty. The door to my study, however, stood ajar, warm light visible around the cracked edges. Inside, someone was humming.  

I summoned the magic of my home. Evenings of laughter with friends, lazy mornings in bed, the smell of old books and the creak of that one floor board on the stairs, the mild irritation at the dripping tap that I never got around to fixing. The shadows of guests come and gone, of ex-lovers, of meals cooked and eaten and late nights wrapped in cosy blankets while the rain thundered down outside. I spun it around me as armour, let the memory of warmth burn hot and ready in my palm.  

With one quick movement, I pushed open the door of my study, stepped inside, and raised my burning hands. "What are you doing in my flat?" 

The intruder let out a surprised squeak and dropped the books he was holding with a crash. "Nothing! I swear, I didn't touch nothing!" 

I groaned and let my fire fizzle out, magic slipping back into the walls. "Hedley. Please tell me you haven't rearranged all my books, again." 

Hedley looked guilty for all of a moment, before pride took over and he gestured at my bookcase excitedly. "But it's much better this way! Don't you think it's more pleasing with all the spines facing inwards?" 

"How am I supposed to know which book is which?" I gathered up the books on the floor and put them back, spines facing outwards.  

Hedley shrugged. "You're a sorcerer, don't you just know these things?" 

"No!" 

"Not a very good sorcerer then." 

"Hedley." I growled.  

"Fine, fine." He started righting my books with a scowl. "Some people have no taste." He sniffed. "Why do you smell like shit?" 

I wagged a finger at him. "I am going to have a shower. You will have this all back to normal by the time I'm done, and then you had better explain to me why you felt the need to break into my flat and sodomise my bookcase." 

I stalked past Rowan, who stood in the doorway. "Apprentice. Make coffee." 

"Yes, master." She said, trying not to laugh.  

*** 

Twenty minutes, a hot shower, and serious amounts of soap later, I smelt less like a full on sewer and more like a slightly lemony drain. I'm wasn't sure my clothes were recoverable, but I bunged them in the washing machine anyway along with half a bottle of detergent. While the machine hummed away, I called some friends up north and left messages with a spouse and an answering machine about the sick kelpie in the hope that someone might be able to shed some light on it. The problem seemed to be resolved for moment, the kelpie appearing none the worse for wear, but the feel of the magic that surrounded it was still making me feel vaguely nauseous.  

Rowan, good apprentice that she was, had made coffee. She'd also raided the kitchen for biscuits, and between them, her and Hedley had already demolished half a packet. I snagged a few before they all disappeared as I threw myself into my armchair. 

"So. Hedley. Heard of a thing called a phone? Or perhaps not breaking and entering?" 

Hedley Kow, bogie man, shapeshifter, and serial book-rearranger, looked affronted. "I didn't break anything!" Today, probably out of respect for the neighbours, he looked mostly human, with a long face and a halo of wild ginger hair. He'd folded his gangly limbs - perhaps a little too tall and a little too thin to be completely human - into some semblance of order, and looked far too comfortable on my sofa whilst cradling a mug and hoovering up custard creams. When we first met, he'd been posing as a phone box, ringing incessantly until passers by picked him up, only to laugh at them down the line. Occasionally I'd get calls from irritated folk complaining Hedley had pretended to be their dog and chewed every other sock in the house, or he'd been posing as traffic signs and purposefully losing tourists in the winding back streets of the city, or that he'd disguised himself as their car and refused to work until they'd already called out the AA. They rang me because, somehow, impossibly, after years of his mischief and me rapping his knuckles, we appeared to be friends. 

"He broke a mug." Rowan said. 

"Slander! Rowan, you wound me!" 

"Hedley." I rubbed my tired eyes. The bogie sunk back into the sofa and sulked.  

"I was trying to help make the coffee." 

"It's been a long day, Hedders. If this is a social visit, can it wait until tomorrow?" 

"It's not social. I mean it is, because we're being sociable, even if you haven't really said hello or asked how I am, like a proper friend would, but we've got drinks and biscuits and everything, so that counts as social, right?" 

"Hello Hedley, how are you?" I sighed. 

"I'm fine, thank you Sam. Actually, I'm not fine, I've got a problem, that's why I'm here, but I'm fine is what you say, isn't it?"  

"What problem?" I asked, but Hedley was still talking. 

"Why do people even say that anyway? Even when the world is ending, everyone would go about saying 'I'm fine, warm today isn't it' even while the pits of hell spew lava over everything and their house is on fire. Good manners, I suppose, not to go on adding your own problems to all the flames and the lava and the end of days and such. So, sorry, I don't want to add to the end of days, but there you have it, I have a problem." 

Rowan patted Hedley on the arm. "Don't worry Hedders, it's not the end of days yet. We can help with whatever the problem is, right Sam?" Her firm look could have bent steel to her will. I stood no chance. 

"Right." I muttered, and ate another biscuit.  

"The problem is, you see, well maybe the problem is not seeing, because that really is the problem, I suppose, but the thing is, I've lost my Oscar." 

"Your...Oscar?" 

"Yes, my Oscar. I've gotten quite attached to him, so it's really quite distressing that I've misplaced him." 

"When was the last time you saw him?" Asked Rowan, while she made motions at me behind Hedley's head: dog? Cat? Pet rock? I offered a minute shrug in reply.  

Hedley didn't notice the silent communication. "A few days ago." 

"What makes you think he's lost?" 

"Because I haven't seen him for a few days."  

There was a logic there, but it wasn't very helpful. "Have you tried putting food out for him?" I ventured. 

"He's not a dog, Sam." Hedley shot me a dirty look.  

Oops. A person, then.  "Sometimes I don't see Rowan for a few days, but that doesn't mean I've lost her, Hedders."  

"We were supposed to meet for dinner." Hedley turned his mug in his hands, agitated. "I even went to the supermarket for ingredients, paid for it with real money and everything! Didn't steal a thing!" 

I was suddenly suspicious. "Where'd you get actual human money, Hedley?" Bogies weren't known for their grasp of human economy.  

He looked shifty. "That, I might have stolen." 

"Hedley!" 

"That's not important right now, Sam! Oscar's lost and I need your help to find him!" 

I rubbed my forehead. I could feel a headache coming on. "Alright, alright. We'll do what we can. Tell us a bit more about Oscar. Why did you come to us instead of the police?" 

"I don't think the police would believe me. 'Oh, hello officer, I think my friend has been kidnapped by a magical being because of his research into all things mystical'. Doesn't really lend itself to a sincere investigation, does it?" 

He had a point. "What do you mean, his research?" 

"Oscar is writing his PhD. It started off as a study of the folklore of the British Isles, but, you know how these things go. It quickly became rather more...involved." 

Yes, I did know how these things went. The magical community didn't particularly advertise its presence to most of the world. Sick kelpies were explained away as sewage leaks, the Cunning Folk kept their talents within the family, and the sorcerers smoothed away rough edges that might upset the delicate sensibilities of the general public. Sometimes, though, people without a prior direct connection stumbled upon this mystical facet of the world. In those instances, one of three things happened: they were drawn in, convinced they were mad, or wound up dead. 

I hoped for Hedley's sake that it was option one.  

"Was he researching anyone in particular? Someone that would want to kidnap him?" 

"I don't know. I was trying to steer him away from some of the less savoury characters, but he wanted to know everything and everyone. Sam, what if something happened to him? I was supposed to be helping him! His consultant! His friend!" Hedley wailed. His form wavered, human shape apparently too difficult to maintain under stress. My mug was in peril of cracking under the force of his polymorphic instability so Rowan gently removed it from his hands and placed it out of danger.  

 “Look, just take a deep breath,” I said, but his form flickered again, brief glimpses of telephone box red skin and electrical cable sinew, “…or, whatever it is that you do. We’ll find him. He probably just met with the wrong fae and is sleeping off a mammoth hangover on someone’s couch. That’s what students do, right? Did he keep a diary, or notes of who he was meeting with?” 

Hedley settled a little, though one leg was still nervously ticking between human and lamp post. “In his house. He made notes on everything.” 

“Can you get us in?” 

Rowan tutted. “Breaking and entering, Sam?” 

“I don’t care when it’s not my flat. Hedley?” 

“I can get you in.” 

“Great. Let’s go find your Oscar.”