P. Stormcrow

It wasn’t what Damien expected at all. The man that allowed them in reminded him of Geppetto. In fact, the entire case was feeling like he was in a macabre version of Pinocchio, minus the lying. 

Or maybe there was lying, and they just hadn’t figured out the truth yet.

After they had verified their identities, confirmed he was indeed the owner of Magic Helpers and yes, they were well aware of the magic community (or at least Damien was,) Mr. Henkin brought them to his kitchen where an old wooden table, scarred by time, stood beneath the window where sunlight filtered in. A newspaper laid neatly folded to one side while a mug with steam still rising from it sat next to it. Orderly. Neat. Not a speck of dust or dirt in place. But the magic in the air was so thick it made Damien’s nose itch.

“Would you like some coffee?” the elder man offered as he shuffled through the kitchen.

“No, thank you,” Newman replied on both of their behalf.

It was the only answer they could give, but a pang of disappointment stabbed at him as he stared at the series of tubes and gears hovering over a clear pot full of dark liquid. It was nothing he had ever seen. What would coffee brewed by that contraption taste like?

“All right.” Mr. Henkin eased down into his chair and folded his hands together. “How can I help you officers?”

Agents. Damien corrected inwardly, but didn’t give voice, allowing Newman to take the lead. 

Instead, Newman nodded towards him. Of course. This case was in their jurisdiction by now, though there was no official handover, so to speak.

Well. Show time.

“We came across one of your helpers during our investigations,” he started.

“Oh no,” Mr. Henkin murmured, furrowing his brow and deepening his wrinkles. “Was everyone okay?” His eyes were clear as he asked, genuine concern reflected on his face. No signs of lying. Either he was very good or the man was truly innocent.

But no, the victims were definitely not okay. But instead of answering though, Damien reached into his bag and withdrew a smaller one that held the broken pieces of their attacker from last night. “Actually, we were hoping you can tell us a little more about your magic helpers.” This was not going the way they had expected. He had expected a takedown and a closed case this morning. Not another interview.

“Someone smashed it!” The genuine horror as the man pulled out each broken piece and tried to put them back together was almost heartbreaking to witness.

He shouldn’t have been embarrassed to say it, but he was as he spoke the words. “It tried to kill me and my partner. We had to.”

Mr. Henkin straightened, puffing his chest out. “We built each magic helper a defensive system should their owners be attacked or someone intends to inflict direct harm to the helpers themselves.” He directed his gaze back down, then froze. “Wait, this is not my work!”

Damien’s mind grinded to a halt at the sudden revelation. He opened his mouth to ask, but the old man stood with speed that belied his age and hurried to a rotary phone that sat in one corner of the counter.

“Yes, yes. You need to come over right away. Yes, now. Yes, it’s urgent. I will explain when you get here.” Mr. Henkin hung up and reached up to a cabinet above to retrieve a leather tool roll up pouch before bringing it to the table. 

It was as if he had forgotten they were there as he fixed a headset with a full set of magnifying glasses mounted to it on to himself then got to work. Damien held his breath and found Newman tensing next to him as Mr. Henkin made small noises of disgust.

“Stop! Put it down!” 

Agent Reed’s voice outside cut through the tension, startling all of them. More voices yelling back. 

Damien didn’t wait for any of them. Instead, he shot up and ran out of the kitchen towards the front door. Newman and Mr. Henkin both called out, but he ignored them as adrenaline pumped through his system.

He burst outside and took in the scene. Newman’s men had drawn guns and were pointing at Reed. No, they were aiming for something behind her. Meanwhile, she had hands up on either side, palms facing outwards.

She was talking them down to convince them to lower their weapons.

He looked to who else she was attempting to hold back, and his stomach turned to lead. 

The gnome’s eyes flashed red, and it gashed its teeth, but did not advance from its position. How Finn overcame her fear enough to be defending the thing was not only admirable but at the moment, also scaring the shit out of him.

“Circe! Prohibere!” Mr. Henkin appeared next to him, panting, but he got the two words out before he let out a long breath of relief.

The golem’s red orbs dulled and its body grew slack though it remained standing. Finn hesitated, staring at it before she lowered her arms. 

The other men, however, took one look at the source of the command and turned their guns at Mr. Henkin. Damien recognized the fear in their eyes. Spooked.

“Daniels. Shannon. Stand down,” Newman barked at them, and only then did they lower their weapons.

Where the hell were the other Strangers? No, that didn’t matter right now. Damien descended the steps as he glimpsed his partner trembling. They’ve been in many close calls, but it was quite another thing having your colleagues point their firearm at you.

“Hey. Hey.” He grabbed both of her shoulders and caught her eye. “You good?”

She swallowed hard and nodded. “Yeah.”

“Daniels, Shannon, head back. Reed—” Newman paused, resignation slackening his face—”come with us.” Directions given, he turned to Mr. Henkin. “I think we need a full explanation.”

***

The warm cup of coffee between her hands did her nerves a world of good. Finn sat at the kitchen table between Jackson and Newman, trying to keep her eye on Mr. Henkin. But her gaze kept wandering to Jackson who stared at his own borrowed mug in amazement.

He didn’t have to say a thing. The coffee was on par, if not better than anything he had ever brewed, at least for her.

At least it distracted him from giving her any more sidelong glances. He was worried about her still and she wasn’t certain if it was only because of the incident that occurred outside just now.

“I built The Magic Helpers business from the ground up when I was young and saw my own grandparents struggling in their old age. The social system is overloaded and hiring assistance for them almost bankrupted my parents. The golems were my way of making sure they had help with the everyday things.” Weariness seeped into the man’s voice and despite all that had happened, pity stabbed at Finn.

“What you saw happen outside was a standard gardening model. All my helpers have a defense system built in and will react if it senses hostility.”

Newman rubbed his forehead. “Have you thought about building them to contact the local law enforcement instead?”

Mr. Henkin straightened and scoffed. “And how would the emergency operator feel about a gnome dialing? And how would they respond to an attack magical in nature?” He shook his head for emphasis. “With all due respect, our community takes care of our own.”

Even Finn could tell that Newman was at his limits, but Jackson interjected before she could.

“You said this one isn’t your work,” her partner prompted and pointed to the mutilated doll that someone had tried to piece back together. 

Finn suppressed a shudder and took another sip of the coffee.

“Yes. I have made many in the past and may not remember all of them, but this here—” Mr. Henkin paused to point at the broken symbol, then trailed off. “A number of years ago, my granddaughter, Talia, started helping me out, at first just during the summer holidays. I eventually took her on as my apprentice. She’s a fast learner, and it’s been so busy—” he began, but stopped again as his voice cracked. As he spoke, his face turned ashen, and he buried it in his hands, unable to continue.

The room grew quiet. Finn knew by the expression on the other agents’ faces that they were all drawing the same conclusions.

“She’s been making mistakes, hasn’t she?” Finn whispered at last. Were all these lives lost because of someone’s honest mistake? 

“Mr. Henkin—” Jackson kept his tone gentle—”is it possible that these weren’t simple errors but were intentional?”

“No!” Mr. Henkin snapped back up in shock. “Talia is a good girl, a kind girl. She would never—”

At that moment, the front door opened and closed. Heavy footsteps echoed through the house before a young woman in her early twenties with a mop of cropped nut brown hair and large expressive eyes that widened as she glimpsed them sitting around the table. 

“Saba? What’s wrong? Who are these people?” Her gaze fell on the broken doll.

Finn couldn’t imagine this girl as a serial killer or even as anyone with malicious intent. In fact, she found it hard to meet her eye.

“It’s okay, Talia. Come here and take a look at this,” Mr. Henkin motioned her over.

She walked over, hesitation slowing her steps.

“Is this one of yours?” he asked.

Talia peered at the doll, face scrunched up in concentration. So much like her grandfather. “Yeah. I remember her.” She looked up and swept her gaze at all of them. “Why? What happened?”

Fuck. Where do they even start?