THE CBD

“Well, this sucks. No robberies, no muggings, not even a jaywalker. I wonder if the guy with the pointy ears ever had this problem? Honestly, it’s enough to drive a person batty.”

A light drizzle followed Mystery Girl through the streets of Pretty City, dampening her leather jacket and doing nothing to improve her mood. She had been riding MOPE, her battered little moped, for nearly an hour.

She slowed at yet another empty intersection. “Maybe I’m in the wrong part of town. I need somewhere sleazy. But where? That’s the problem with living in a place called Pretty City. Pretty much nothing ever happens. Crime-related, I mean.”

Rain tapped against her helmet. “The docks! That sounds ominous. Well, for Pretty City, anyway.”

THE DOCKS

The docks were darker, wetter and considerably smellier. Rain drummed against corrugated roofs and trickled down the weathered brickwork of the old waterfront buildings.

“Now this is my kind of place. You can smell the desperation. Or maybe that’s just the day’s catch? We are on the water, after all.” She considered this. “I wonder what it’s like to be a fish. You’d think they’d be cleaner, living in water twenty-four-seven. Another mystery for another day.”

She parked MOPE outside a convenience store. “Matcha latte, then home. I wish I were closer to Con-Bini. Connie makes the best lattes.”

Leaving the store, drink in hand, Sofie heard a commotion from the alley behind the shop. She quickly swapped her leather jacket and helmet for her cape and hood, tossing the helmet onto MOPE’s handlebars and the jacket onto the seat. One saving grace was that her costume could almost pass for ordinary clothing beneath a zipped-up jacket. The enormous lilac question mark was rather difficult to overlook.

“Kick him again!”

Two rough-looking men were laughing as they kicked something hidden behind a giant bin.

“Hey! Stop that!”

They actually stopped. Both stared at the girl in purple, still holding a matcha latte.

“Stop what? This?” One of them kicked the unseen victim again.

Sofie took one final sip, set her cup in the little tray behind MOPE’s seat and sprinted towards the men. They laughed right up until her foot connected with the first thug’s head.

“Flying Dragon Strikes Fast!” she announced, giving the move its proper name.

The second man swung clumsily. She ducked and struck his exposed throat with a controlled blow.

“Don’t Poke the Bear!” she cried, secretly pleased with the name she had coined.

Both men staggered, then recovered enough to rise. Their confidence returned. Sofie clenched her fists.

“Ready for seconds, are we? You boys sure are hungry to eat more fist.”

The men grinned. What Sofie didn’t know was that the duo were actually a trio. Their third companion was creeping up behind her with a knife, his footsteps masked by the patter of rain and the steady hiss of passing traffic.

One of the thugs was fantasising about Little Miss Purple bleeding red when something behind her caught his eye. He and his partner suddenly turned and ran.

“I thought so. Cowards,” Sofie muttered, taking a few triumphant steps after them.

Behind her, the knife-wielder never got the chance to strike. A black-gloved hand clamped over his mouth while another caught his knife arm. A silent pulse from a device concealed in the glove left him limp before he could shout. His shadowy assailant eased him against the wall, took the knife and left him with a painful reminder to reconsider his chosen career.

Sofie noticed none of it. She was already hurrying towards the victim.

“Oh my God! It’s a toddler!” She turned the two-foot figure over. “Oh my God! It’s not a toddler!”

Two swollen eyes stared up at her from the face of an anthropomorphic duck. He looked half dead. No, scratch that. Entirely dead.

“Help m—” he managed before passing out.

“What the hecky?” Sofie stared. “What to do? What to do? The amulet!”

It could heal. She didn’t know everything it could do, but she knew that much. She reached for the golden disc at her waist, ready to invoke the Latin command “Sano,” meaning “to heal.”

Her fingers met an empty belt where the amulet buckle should have been.

The amulet was safe on a table in the basement at Mariner’s Rhyme. She had removed it before visiting the bathroom. The admittedly remote prospect of dropping a priceless ancient artefact down the toilet had seemed an excellent reason not to wear it. At the time.

“Argh! You idiot! My first night as a crimefighter and I forget the one thing I actually need. I think I should retire.”

She crouched beside the duck. “Up you get, little guy. I’m betting my amulet can do a better job than a vet. Or a doctor. Whichever one normally treats you.”

She carried him to MOPE and carefully settled him behind her. As she rode away, MOPE hit a pothole hidden beneath a puddle, jolting Dead Duck against the tray behind her seat. His webbed foot knocked the forgotten latte onto the wet road as dirty water cascaded over an unsuspecting pedestrian.

“Sorry!” Sofie called, unable to stop with her injured passenger.

THE BASEMENT — MARINER'S RHYME

It took twenty minutes for the duck to regain consciousness and stand on his webbed feet. Seventeen of those minutes had been spent riding back to Mariner’s Rhyme. Once Sofie had retrieved the amulet and spoken the healing command, the rest had gone remarkably quickly.

The duck looked down at himself. “Not bad. Thanks for the lift. And the repairs. I was starting to think I’d have to put myself back together.”

“Those guys really did a number on you.”

“Those two? Please. They found me while I was escaping the Unmortals. I can handle a couple of humans. Usually.”

Sofie examined him with renewed interest. “If you don’t mind me asking, who—or what—are you?”

“Dead Duck. Double D to my friends.”

“Double D it is, then. You can call me MG.”

Sofie smiled, although she couldn’t help noticing that Double D had more syllables than DD. So much for abbreviations, she thought.

Dead Duck returned the smile. On his battered beak, it looked more like a rictus grin.

“MG it is. Though I suppose I can call you Sofie when you’re at home.”

She froze. “How did you know my name?”

“Your coffee mug says Sofie. Bit of a giveaway, that. You might want to work on the secret-identity business.”

“Right. It’s been a long night.”

“No problem. And yes, before you ask, I’m technically dead. Dead as a dodo, actually.”

“I gathered that when I saw the fist-sized hole where your heart should be.”

“That? Had it for a while. You get used to the breeze. I heal fairly quickly, but it’s not exactly express service.”

“Weren’t you worried I might attack you when I woke up?” he asked.

“Not really. The amulet lets me read auras. Yours seemed decent.”

“Decent? I’ll take it. Better than most reviews.”

“Well, I’d better skedaddle, then.” He hopped down from the table.

Sofie hesitated. “I should probably blindfold you before I take you back to the city.”

“Bit late for that, I’m afraid. You’ve already brought me home. Besides, ducks migrate thousands of miles. I’ve got a pretty good idea where we are.”

“Oh.”

“Relax. I’m a vagabond, not a burglar. I don’t make a habit of dropping in uninvited. I’ll fly myself out.”

“Well, take care.”

Dead Duck climbed through the small window into the garden. Sofie watched him disappear.

“Well, you don’t see that every day,” she said to the apparently empty room.

Then she went upstairs, burrowed into bed and fell fast asleep. She dreamed of a formation of flying dead ducks, with her new friend on point.

ELSEWHERE

A young woman dressed in a flamboyant red witch’s outfit, complete with an oversized hat, held a discarded takeaway cup in one hand and a crystal ball in the other. The cup had once contained a matcha latte. Now it provided something much more useful: a magical connection to the person who had drenched her in dirty street water.

Within the ball, an image sharpened into focus. Sofie Toddlesworth.

Witchway smiled with delight.

“Gotcha!”