“Could you have the valet bring my gig around to the front?” Master Jabber asked Mr. Phew’s secretary, a woman with a bob of light golden brown hair.

She gave him a look of surprise.

“What? Is there an issue?”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” the woman said. “Aren’t you a magician? Can’t you just use magic to teleport or fly on a broomstick or something?”

Jabber rolled his eyes. “First of all, witches fly on broomsticks, not magicians. Second of all, why does everyone expect me to use magic all the time? I’m not some sort of dancing magical monkey you know. Do people expect secretaries to bring coffee when they’re outside the office? Why the double standard?”

“I see,” she said, pursing her lips. “One moment.” She called the valet and asked him to bring Jabber’s gig around the front of the building.

Jabber thanked her. “I do appreciate it. I’ll likely be coming to these offices a lot, you know.”

She gave him a stiff smile. “That will be lovely. We’re glad to have you as a client.”

A few moments later the valet pulled up with Jabber’s gig.

***

“Master Jabber!”

Jabber turned to see his doctor walking up to his carriage. It was noon and besides the man, the street in front of the law offices of Mitchel Phew, Esq. was empty.

“Doctor Turnbull!” Jabber exclaimed. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The doctor placed his walking stick on the ground and leaned on it. He was a dapper older gentleman in a brown suit, a felt brown bowler cap, and a pocket watch with a golden chain. His white mustache was trimmed thin and when he spoke or smiled, he somehow managed to flash all his pearly white teeth.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“Your golem said I could find you here, sir,” the good doctor said.

“How can I be at your service?”

“Well, I wanted to inform you that you were correct to come in and have those slight discolorations on your hand checked. I ran preliminary tests on the samples I took and, well . . . ”

“Yes?!” Jabber’s eyes were now fully on his doctor, nervously awaiting the diagnosis.

“Well, there are indications that it may be daemonoplasmosis.”

Jabber’s eyes widened in shock. “Is that some sort of cancer or consumption?”

The doctor laughed softly with a sound like warm afternoon sunshine. “No, no, no . . . this could be much worse.”

Jabber felt a strong pressure of despair rise from his now racing heart up into his head. “So, what is it? What do I need to do?”

“For now? Nothing . . . we need to run more tests. If it’s not malignant, it will go away in a couple of weeks. On the other hand . . .”

“Yes?! Tell me! On the other hand what?” Jabber interrupted frantically.

“The infection will slowly spread as many malignant demonic influences do. Little by little your skin will turn charcoal black, your eyes will begin to glow, and you’ll become the thrall of whatever demonic entity infected you . . . what did you say you had come in contact with again?”

“A hellhound!” Jabber said through gritted teeth. “Her spit was on my wand when I used it.”

“Ah yes! That would explain the rare infection. Human magic plus demon spittle is quite the dangerous combination. Must have been what opened your spirit up to possession.”

“Oh Dear God Missing Above,” Jabber groaned in despair.

“Oh, my dear man, my apologies,” the doctor said, frowning. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Nothing is clear yet. I need to run some more tests but merely wanted to keep you informed. I’ll send a note when I get the final results.”

“Thank you doctor,” Jabber said, slumping back in his gig.

“You’re entirely welcome!” Dr. Turnbull replied with a flashy grin. “I’ll be in touch. But in the meantime, you have a wonderful day!” With that the good doctor sauntered down the empty street, whistling a show tune to himself.

Jabber softly pounded a fist into his forehead, took a few deep breaths, and then, giving his reins a light tug, headed for home.