It's been a rough few weeks over here, and I totally forgot I'd started this already, so here's Episode 2. I'm going to post an extra one this week to make up for being so terrible.

***

Darkness zooms in from your peripheral vision, stunning your question back into your mouth. For a second, there’s no ground beneath your feet, and all you can feel is warm, supple leather beneath your palm.

And just like that, you’re standing on the pavement of a narrow street beside a row of shops. The man is still beside you, patiently waiting for you to remove your hand from his arm.

You tug it away quickly. “Sorry,” you say. “And thanks for bringing me… wherever here is.”

“London. East end,” he says, just as a black cab speeds along the road towards you. “You want the shop with the pink neon sign.”

You don’t even notice the huge puddle in the gutter until it’s too late. You try to step away, pressing your back against the closest shop window, and holding your breath. The cab splashes through the puddle, the gutter water arcing into the air, hitting some kind of shield and dropping to the pavement. The man is completely dry, and so are you.

“How did you do that?” you ask him.

“Same way I brought you here.”

“You’ve got…” You raise a hand to your chin. “There’s something in your beard.”

He shrugs. “I’ll eat it later. Better go. I’m late for a modelling job.”

Before you can ask more, he disappears right before your eyes.

Now what?

The only thing you know is that you’re somewhere in the east end of London, and this is all a terrible mistake.

The shop with the neon pink sign is painted in British racing green and has two columns flanking the double doors. On the outside of each column, there’s a flattened bow window running from the barred basement level to the iron buttressing beneath the narrow balcony, which runs across the width of the building on the first floor.

The signage above the door is painted in gold.

Kane and Fable. Established 1828. London, E1.

The window displays hold an assortment of antique knick-knacks, clashing with the vibrant pink sign that reads: Please Come In.

For a moment, you wonder if they’re expecting you.

“It’s not talking to you,” you mutter to yourself.

Yes, I Mean You, the sign reads.

You blink, certain you must’ve misread it.

You blink again.

Please Come In, it reads.

The sign is gaslighting you, which is funny when you think about it. Because it’s neon. Gas. Lighting. No groaning or eye-rolling. You can keep that soft smile though; it looks good on you.

You reach for the brass door knob, pushing the door open. The scent of wood polish and old books greets you when you step inside. The lighting is dim and coppery, though you’re not sure where it’s coming from because there are no bulbs in the ceiling, nor any discernible lamps.

“Hello?” you call, though your voice gets lost somewhere on its way up your throat, emerging as a scratchy sound that’s more velcro than human.

Your gaze drifts around the shop, ping-ponging from one trinket to another. The shop is cluttered with floor-to-ceiling mahogany display cases, some rising like columns of wood and glass, others backed with mirrors and standing against the wall. Between the columns are waist-high book shelves, crammed with thick leather and linen-bound books. You still can’t tell where the light is coming from.

You take three cautious steps further into the shop, and an orange blur zips across the room and darts behind you. The moment you turn, a slightly cross-eyed tabby climbs up you, scratching your skin despite the layers you’re wearing. You keep still because you don’t want to frighten the overly familiar cat. You go slightly cross-eyed yourself trying to read the silver name tag around the cat’s neck.

“Who calls their cat Mush?” you say, stroking the fur beneath its chin.

“It’s Mush,” says a voice behind you.

You turn to find a man standing behind the counter at the back of the shop. “That’s what I said.”

“No,” he counters. “You said Mush like rush, and it’s Mush like bush. He can tell the difference.”

“Hello, Mush,” you tell the cat, who is now squatting on your shoulder like Captain Flint, and licking your ear like you’re a tuna sandwich. “Get down, Mush.”

To your surprise, the cat does so immediately, landing at your feet. He looks up at you, and his somewhat squashed face makes you realise that his name is rather apt after all. He lets out one determined yowl after another.

Is he… is he talking?

The cat awaits your response.

“Thank you for the welcome,” you say, not wanting to offend the cat with impoliteness in his own house.

“I think he likes you,” says the man behind the counter.

You haven’t got a good look at him yet because he’s inexplicably wearing an old ladies’ hat with a black veil, the sort reserved for super dramatic ancient widows. A stuffed raven is perched among its ruffles.

“Thatcher Kane at your service,” he says. “What can I help you with today? Wait… let me guess. You want me to get rid of the enchanted mushrooms in your garden?”

You stare at him. Was that a serious suggestion?

“No?” He taps his chin. “Got it. You decided to get your house warded on the cheap, and now it’s overrun with sprites? Wait, it’s not a haunting, is it? Because you’re better off going to Starbrooke Paranormal Investigations for that.”

“I don’t know why I’m here,” you tell him. “I was sent on an adventure. A man with hell in his eyes brought me here and told me this was the shop I needed.”

“Right,” he says, drawing back the veil just so he can direct a suspicious squint in your direction. “You’re one of those.”

“Am I?”

“I imagine so,” he says. The man has a dozen little scars on his pale face, hair so black it must be dyed, and startling amber eyes. His black suit and the dark tattoos covering his neck make it appear as if his head is floating, as if the raven just laid a gigantic, upside down, hovering egg. “It’s usually the chatty red-haired one that brings people here,” he goes on. “But I heard he was sunbathing on a volcano, which sounds dangerous, if you ask me. And if not him, it’s sometimes his inexplicably Chinese brother, or the grumpy one who would marry his ship if it wouldn’t raise eyebrows.”

You have no idea what he’s talking about. And why would you?

“So, why did he bring me here?” you ask. “Because no offence to you… or your lovely shop… or Mush…” You glance at the raven on his head, wondering if you should include it in your list of potential offendees. You decide against it, as Thatcher Kane blinks at you, waiting for your presumed offence. “But I doubt many adventures begin in antique shops.”

Kane glances around his shop as if seeing it for the first time. “I suppose most things in here are antique, but you’re wrong about the lack of adventure. I’ve lost count of the adventures that started in here.”

You eye him sceptically, then squawk when the Raven on his head spreads its wings and takes flight, landing in a ruffle of feathers on a book shelf.

The bird squawks back.

“Aw, he thinks you’re family,” says Kane. “They’re human,” he tells the bird, then arches his eyebrow at you. “You are, aren’t you?”

“Last I checked,” you say.

He nods, telling the bird in a louder than necessary voice, “They’re human. You’re corvid.” He points at you. “Human person.” Then points at the raven. “Bird person.”

You’re certain the man’s got a few nuts and bolts loose in the attic, but it would be rude to point it out, so you browse the closest display case, keeping one eye on the bird that’s pecking at a tray of marbles. A tray of marbles that is, on closer inspection, a tray of glass eyeballs.

“So, why did he bring me here?” you push. “And who was he?”

Before Kane can answer, animated voices drift into the shop from behind a dramatic velvet curtain edged with gold pompoms.

A man walks through the curtain. He doesn’t even move it aside, just drifts through the fabric like a ghost. Go on, guess why!

“Oops!” he says, when he sees you.

“How many times have I asked you to push the bloody curtain aside when you come into the shop, Simeon?” Kane barks. “Anyone could’ve been in here. Thirty years you’ve been floating around, and you still forget.”

“Sorry,” mutters Simeon the ghost. “Cecilia distracted me.”

He looks more solid than you’d expect a ghost to look, and despite what Kane said, Simeon is not floating. He’s walking, legs scissoring back and forth, feet striking the floor. You can hear every footstep. His hair is fair and messy, like he died by electrocution, but you don’t want to stare. Because one, it’s rude. And two, he’s not exactly dressed for company.

You look sort of like an owl right now with how wide your eyes are, so it’s probably best to tone it down a bit. You stare at the raven-pecked eyeballs instead. They’re all looking at you, and the raven is looking very smug about it.

“Don’t blame me for the forgetful bit of fluff you keep between your ears,” a woman says, presumably Cecilia, as she sweeps the curtain aside.

Your eyes are in danger of drying out completely if you don’t blink soon. Stop staring at Cecilia! Come on, stop! Thing is, you can’t. Because she’s the most glamorous woman you’ve ever seen in real life. Her golden hair is impossibly glossy, her makeup flawless, her tall, curvy figure clad from head to toe in black. Red lipstick aside, she looks like an exotic cat burglar, the kind that only steals treasures from the Louvre and gets paid in diamonds.

“You mentioned your hot dads and I got distracted,” Simeon insists.

Cecilia grimaces. “Can you bloody not!”

Simeon glances at you again, then sidles up to Kane. “They’re staring at me.”

Kane frowns at him. “What do you expect? They’ve probably never seen a ghost before.”

“Even if they have, I bet they weren’t as delightfully dressed as you,” Cecilia says, smirking at the unfortunately dressed ghost.

“It was wash day,” Simeon grits out, as if he’s had to remind her of the fact a hundred times. He looks at you then. “Would you believe I was suited to the nines the entire week before I was unalived?”

“You can’t talk like Gen Z when you’ve been dead thirty years,” Cecilia says.

“Cover thine immortal ears then, wench,” he tells her, before turning back to you. “I was the most dashing man you could ever hope to meet.”

You’re sceptical, tilting your head slightly to squint at him. To imagine what dashing might look like on this scruff-bag.

He rubs his beard, and his dark eyes grow distant and wistful. “I looked like I’d just stepped off the screen of a gangster movie… all suave in my navy pinstriped suit and Versace sunglasses.”

“And now you get to spend eternity looking like slob number two,” Cecilia says, lifting a water bottle to her mouth to take a sip. “Like you opened the door to the pizza delivery man and Lippy Louie was waiting with a Glock instead. You should’ve got a peephole installed.”

“Everyone knows you don’t look through the peephole when there’s a gangster at the door, Cee. And who the hell is Lippy Louie?”

She shrugs. “Fat Tony’s brother?”

“Again, I ask you—”

“How should I know?” Cecilia says. “You’re the gangster movie buff.”

Simeon sags against the counter. “And now everyone thinks I wear washday boxers in real life.”

“You do.”

“Yeah, but—”

Kane pinches Simeon’s lips shut, looking almost surprised that he made actual contact, then directs his next words at you. “Ignore him. He’s being dramatic. He can change his clothes if he wants. He just likes it when people feel sorry for him.”

Simeon scowls, but it’s not an effective deterrent when he’s got duck lips. “You spoil all my fun,” he complains, when Kane lets him go.

Aside from washday boxers, he’s wearing fluffy bunny slippers, a faded Fraggle Rock t-shirt, and a worn-out black silk dressing gown with a red dragon on it. When Simeon runs his hand through his hair, trying to smooth the strands curling around his ears, but affecting its electrified appearance in no way whatsoever, you notice one more thing: a wedding ring.

“Don’t people feel sorry for you just for being dead?” you ask.

“You would think,” says Simeon, his eyebrows raised. “But you’d be surprised by the number of people who just don’t give a fig.”

Cecilia looks you up and down. “What are you here for anyway?”

“A man with hell in his eyes brought me,” you explain.

“Oh, it’s usually my uncle,” she says.

“Your hot uncle,” Simeon corrects.

“Shut up! You think everyone’s hot.”

He sidles up to Kane again. “Nobody’s as hot as my Thatcher.”

The shopkeeper’s cheeks bloom a bright pink, which makes his face look a lot less like an upside down egg. “I’m not yours anymore, Simeon,” he says softly. “I haven’t been for a long time.”

“I would’ve won you back,” Simeon says, disarming the entire room with his easy smile. “You would’ve been unable to resist my many charms.”

“Like your exquisite taste in underwear?” Cecilia suggests.

“Stop it, you two,” Kane snaps. “We have a guest.”

The two fall silent, turning contrite faces towards you.

“They signed up for an adventure,” Kane continues.

“Well, I wouldn’t say I signed up,” you tell them.

Kane shrugs. “Signed. Pressed a button. Put your name in a box. It’s all the same to us.”

That’s fair. After all, you did press a button and put your name in a box. Of course, you weren’t expecting a shabbily dressed ghost, an immortal woman with allegedly hot male relatives, and a man who wears a raven on his head. A man who was potentially married to Simeon, who’s been dead for thirty years, and yet looks no older than thirty himself.

You shift uneasily on your feet. Have you just walked into a vampire shop? Simeon definitely said Cecilia was immortal—or specifically, that her ears were immortal—and what are the alternatives? Angels? Demons? The forever young bloodline of Paul Rudd? Or perhaps the offspring of fae royalty, Hozier and Florence Welch?

You tuck your hands behind your back, so nobody can see them shaking, jumping out of your skin when the door clatters open. You turn as a man throws himself inside, frantically bolting the doors behind him.

“Oh, I’ve really gone and done it this time,” he yells.

“You’re indoors now, Pride,” says Kane. “No more outside voice, please.”

The man should’ve been a schoolteacher rather than a shopkeeper.

Pride, who looks like a cross between Indiana Jones and Aquaman, hunches in on himself and whisper-hisses, “I’ve really gone and done it this time.”

“We heard you the first time,” says Kane.

Pride straightens. “I can’t talk quietly. I’m not a bloody mouse. Anyway, Cascade’s on my tail, which is not a quiet kind of news.”

“Pride!” Cecilia complains. “I guess I’ll be off then, since I can’t be seen here with you lot.”

Cecilia rushes back through the velvet curtain, and that’s the last you see of her.

“What’s Cascade?” you ask.

“She works for them,” says Simeon.

“Yeah, but what is it?”

Kane squints at you, as if the longer you’re here, the less he trusts you. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“Wait, does Cascade know you’re here?” Pride asks, countless emotions tumbling behind his eyes as he looks at you.

Still, it takes you a while to realise it's you he's talking to. “Erm, I don’t think so.”

Pride slumps against the door, sighing in relief. He tugs at his waist until a bum-bag that wasn’t even there a minute ago comes loose in his hand, drawing attention to an ugly, oversized belt buckle. The bag is fluorescent orange, with a dozen zips. He shoves it into your hands. “Put this on. As long as that back zip is closed, it’ll remain invisible and untouchable to anyone’s hands but yours while you’re wearing it.”

You hesitate for a moment before strapping it to your waist. “What’s in it?”

“I’ll explain later,” he says, pushing you towards the back of the shop.

Beyond the velvet curtain is a living room. Literally, a living room. Filled with shivering and swaying plants. A white cat with black socks and a patch of black fur around one eye jumps from one platform jutting out of the wall to another.

“Don’t mind Soup,” says Pride.

“The cat’s name is Soup?” you ask, even though you’re not surprised anymore.

Pride doesn’t answer as Kane and Simeon drift in from the shop. He just throws a hula-hoop sized nylon frisbee to the floor. “It’s a portal.”

You fold your arms. “You’re just being ridiculous now.”

“You’re wearing an invisible bum-bag,” Pride points out.

“And you’re in a room with a ghost,” Simeon reminds you.

“And a talking raven,” Kane adds, nodding at the raven now perched on his shoulder.

You huff. “The raven doesn’t—”

“The raven does,” says the raven.

“Right, so this is a portal,” you agree, glancing down at the frisbee. “Where will it take me?”

“Anywhere you tell it.”

“Anywhere in the world?” you ask, thinking of all the possibilities. Paris. Rome. Hawaii. Swindon. But the man crushes your dreams with his next words.

“Anywhere in this world.”

So far, this world seems to be full of magic and danger, but you did sign up for this, right? You signed up for adventure.

“It’s a bit glitchy and temperamental,” Kane warns, nodding at the frisbee portal.

A frantic banging starts up on the front door, making all of you jump.

“You need to leave now,” Pride says. “You must guard that bum-bag with your life.”

“What?” you squeak. “My life?”

“You’re freaking them out,” says Kane.

Pride reaches for your shoulders, his large hands steadying you, his expression earnest. “Just look after it, okay?”

You nod, a subtle sense that you would do anything he asked coming over you. “I’ll look after it.”

Pride smiles proudly. “All you need to do is jump in and grab the portal on your way down.”

You bite your lip, your nerves getting the better of you.

The banging continues, accompanied by muffled voices.

Kane waves an idle hand in your direction. “You can’t wear that.”

“You need to find the blue bun,” says Pride. “Find the blue bun, and I’ll find you.”

At this point, you’d jump into the Baltic to avoid these weirdos.

“Good luck,” says the raven.

With that sentiment circling your mind, you jump.

***

If you want to see the inspiration for Kane & Fable's shop, you can see it here.

You'll need a password to get in (ALL CAPS): CORVID

See you back here for Episode 3: Why is There a Rube Goldberg Machine on the Stairs?