Last time, on The Supernormal:

“Oi,” said Jack, “why are you doing a recap? They probably only just read the last one, how bad do you think the readers' memories are?”

It’s how things work. You remind everyone of the stakes, drum up the intrigue, etcetera.

“Who do you think you are, Niall Raiman? This is just a web novel, so stop acting like you’re writing a hit TV show!”

Well, there’s no way we’ll get an adaptation if you keep ruining the recap scenes.

“Get a clue, you moron! For someone to want to adapt you, you need an audience, and if you want an audience, you have to keep them gripped. Not troll them with pointless scenes when you just kicked off the plot. And without any description! Who’s gonna read a conversation between the narrator and a floating head? Argh!”

We now return you to your daily nonsense.

“Listen when people are talking to you, you degenerate chimpanzee!”

***

“So let me get this straight,” said her mother, “after defying my orders to spend the full chapter with Mr. Pooper, and allowing some homeless grifter to cut in on our page time, you once again defied me to take your sister out! Moreover, you lost her. Did I miss anything?”

“The author really wanted that recap, it seems.” Lydia was in her mother’s office, back at the manor. It was a large room, stuffy and warm, with a huge mahogany desk and bookcases lining the walls. There was a black curtain drawn behind the desk, where her mother sat with fingers interlocked, her cold glare driving through Lydia. It smelled of polished wood and subtle perfume.

“Now is not the time to be playing the wise guy, child. What were you thinking?” Faye Blackwell was a severe woman, as short as her daughter, but with an aura that could cow even the bravest giant. She wore a pantsuit with a silk blouse, diamonds shining on her clavicle.

“That she doesn’t deserve to be a prisoner in her own house.” There were two leather chairs set on her side of the desk, but Lydia was standing.

Faye scoffed, clenching her fist. “You haven’t the first clue, have you? Do you know why I am the head of this family?”

Lydia shrugged, a drop of sweat trailing down her neck. “All of your siblings ran away in terror?”

Faye struck the desk, shaking the computer and papers stacked there. “Ignorant brat! I am in charge because I know what’s best for this family, and I-”

“Don’t actually give a shit about me and Jess.” Lydia’s nose twitched as she fought against her knees’ urge to quake. “Everything’s about the family, our standing, our reputation. The people who are a part of it are just chess pieces to you, aren't they? Don’t try telling me that you know what’s best for anyone but yourself, you manipulative bitch.”

Faye growled. “You know nothing, little girl.”

“How do you know what I know? You only talk to me to tell me what a disappointment I am, or that I need to marry a zoo animal for the sake of the family!”

Faye chuckled, a mirthless smile curling across her lips. “It is clearly not enough, or Jessica would be here with you, wouldn’t she?”

The words lanced through her chest, ripping her heart out of her back. She could barely breathe. “I’ll get her back.”

Faye shook her head. “You’ve done enough. As of this moment, you are stripped of the Blackwell name, and all of its privileges. I want you out of my territory by morning.”

***

Choo-chooin was surprisingly quick.

Being a turtle, with a heavy shell and column-like legs, Jack had expected a glacial ride home. Instead, he was treated to a blurred backdrop and screaming bystanders.

Overtaking was easy. The creature could clear twenty feet in a single bound, and was nimble enough to treat tiny gaps like open road.

Sitting cross-legged on the disc atop its back, he'd thought he’d be puking his guts up. But apparently, the concept of inertia meant nothing to a genetically engineered Fae mount. The disc probably had runic circuits. He knew the basics—runes channelled and directed quintessence, which then did unspeakable things to the laws of physics. Layering them in circuits allowed more complex reactions.

There was even a little thermostat.

After a couple of minutes—when the world returned to its standard definition—they were in the forecourt of a two-storey building. It was paved with slabs, low fences separating it from its neighbours. The ground floor had wide windows, and a sign above a glass door reading ‘Barry the Barber’. A sign across a first-floor window said ‘Jack Of All Trades’.

Through the window, he could see clinical white décor, and chairs and tables and mirrors. An old man, ruddy and grizzled with white hair, spotted him and clenched his jaw. Abandoning his customer, he flew out the door and goggled at the turtle.

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“What the hell is that thing?”

“Choo-chooin,” said Jack, scowling at him with folded arms.

A vein burst from the old man’s forehead. “I didn’t ask for a name, I asked you what it is!”

“A friend.”

“So you finally gave up on people and turned to animals? Good! I can finally be rid of you then, so give me my rent and piss off!”

Jack gasped, his mouth making an ‘o’. “Eh? Rent? Do you still live your life by such outdated concepts? You need to get out more, Barry, make some friends so you don’t have to worry about nonsense like that.”

Barry ground his teeth. “The only nonsense here is what’s coming out of your mouth. I provide premises, you pay me money. It’s in the contract!”

“You poor fool!” Jack leaped from the disc, landing close enough to Barry to breathe on him. “Don’t let the Lizardfolk fool you with all this stuff about contracts and money. They’re Fae, but we’re human, and living is a human right, dammit!”

With a growl, he slapped Jack across the ear. “How can a lazy bum like you call himself a human being? Do some work!”

Jack got back in his face, his fists clenched. “What was that, you oxygen thief? I’ll have you know I have a client due right now!”

Barry looked around, snorting. “A client. You? Then where are they? And more importantly, do something about that monstrosity before it scares all my customers away!”

“Your face is enough to do that on its own!”

Barry grabbed him by the collar. “You little...”

“Excuse me,” came a feminine voice, “is this where I can find Jack Of All Trades?”

They turned, almost glued to each other in their scuffle, and saw a mousy woman of average height. Her hair was in a bob, and wrinkles were beginning to invade her face. She wore a blue jacket and jeans, smelled faintly of cheap body spray, and carried an oversized handbag over her shoulder.

Jack pointed to himself, separating from his battle with a spare thought as to whether his sign was now played by Jessica Alba. “That’s me. Ms. McAllister?”

The woman smiled shakily, sticking out a hand. “Please, call me Andrea.”

He shook it, gesturing to the door set next to the barbershop windows. “Okay, Andrea, please step into my office.”

He produced a key, opening the door and beckoning Andrea up the stairs. As he followed, he heard a final cry from the courtyard.

“Next time I see you, you better have my money, you leech!”

***

His office was small, and smelled of stale coffee. There was a window behind a desk, which was cluttered with loose paper and an ancient laptop, a torn office chair tucked underneath. Next to the door, a countertop held a kettle and a microwave, with a fridge next to another pair of doors in the corner.

In the middle of the room were two sofas, facing each other with a table between. Jack and Andrea sat on opposite couches, steaming mugs before them.

“So how can I help you, Andrea?”

She looked on the verge of tears. “It-it’s my daughter. She’s gone missing.”

Jack knit his brows. “And why are you coming to me, instead of the police?”

She snarled, spit flying from her teeth. “Are you joking? Of course I reported it, and I’ve called them every day, but nothing. Those idiots are as much use as a shoe shop in the Shire!” She screwed her eyes shut, sniffling. “I’m sorry, it’s just been a tough few days.”

Jack frowned, passing her a box of tissues. “Don’t worry about it.” Thanks to the attraction of the Tower, the city had turned into a melting pot over the years. So chaotic that none of the Twelve Families could keep a grip on it. That left him, with the exception of a comically understaffed Police unit, as most people’s last hope in those situations. He swallowed a groan.

“What’s your daughter’s name?”

She sniffed. “Hannah. God, she’s only nineteen. Anything could have happened!”

“Don’t worry,” said Jack, “I’ll get her back. Do you have anything for me to start with?”

She reached into her bag, producing a mountain of files and folders which flowed over to the floor.

Jack shot up, eyes bulging. “What is that thing, a Handbag of Holding? And how much do you need to know about your daughter? Are you sure she didn’t just run away from this,” — he waved a hand over the table — “Apache parenting?”

Andrea’s face scrunched, and she whimpered. “I had to do something! I got into all of her accounts, listed all of her friends, but I couldn't figure anything out. I’ve failed her.”

Jack sat back down, holding his hands up. “I’m sorry, okay? You haven’t failed, you’ve done the best you could. Clearly. Maybe too well. But I was just thinking of places she hung out, maybe a picture.”

She rummaged in the files, taking long enough Jack started wondering if she'd gotten lost in the paper jungle. Minutes passed, and she produced an A4 sheet, and a monochrome photograph. “Here.”

He studied the picture. It contained a skinny girl grinning brightly in front a swing. Her face was narrow, and she wore jeans and a t-shirt, everything else about her screaming ‘average’. The paper was a list of several locations, most of them favoured by teenagers.

Something clicked.

He smiled. “Sit tight, Andrea. I’ll get back to you when I’ve got something.”

***

He wandered down a winding path, the soft aroma of freshly-cut grass tickling his nostrils. There was light chatter around him, and the occasional screech from an excited child. His eyes wandered over the family groups: he'd visited that park with his own, once upon a time. He sighed, making a face like he’d swallowed a fly.

He cut across the grass, weaving through picnics and approaching a copse of trees surrounded by hedges. It was one of several such features in Stanley Park, but the only one with what he needed.

He stopped next to the corner of the hedge, whistling. “Are you in there?”

“Who’s askin’?” The voice from the hedge was clipped, crabby, and possibly female. It was hard to tell.

“It’s Jack.”

“What you want?”

“I’m looking for a missing girl.”

The hedge scoffed. “Oh, bloody typical! Just ‘cause I’m an ‘edge witch, you think I can do anything!”

Jack rubbed his forehead. “I don’t have time to be the straight man right now.” He took Hannah’s photo from his pocket, sliding it into the hedge. “I just wanna know if you’ve seen her.”

The picture disappeared, pulled into the shrubbery. The hedge considered for a second. “What’s in it for me?”

Jack sighed. “I thought you might say that.” He rummaged through his jacket, producing a rectangular red packet. “How about an original, authentic bag of Runner’s Ready Salted?” He shook it, the snacks rustling within the plastic.

“Worth more’n that, I reckon.” The hedge witch sounded smug.

He scoured his pockets for something else. Other than old betting slips and fluff, they were depressingly empty. “I have an Argolis pen?”

“Ooh, lovely! All these kids wi’ their computers, you never see a good catalogue anymore. I’ll take it.”

He shoved the pen into the bush. “Yeah, yeah, the good old days and that. So have you seen her, or not?”

“Oh, this lass? Aye, not four nights past.”

“Okay. And?”

“Seen her get off wi’ a couple o’ blokes in trackies.”

He took a deep breath. “What did the blokes look like? Any distinguishing features?”

“Not really, just looked like ordinary blokes.”

“Great, thanks.” Jack shook his head, turning on his heel. What a waste of time.

“Ooh, ‘ang on, there was one thing, now that I think of it.”

Jack stopped, and waited. And waited. And waited. “Well, what was it then?”

“They was all sparkly, like a bird had shit glitter on them.”

His face twisted in anguish.

This job had just gotten a lot more complicated.