Wizard for Hire

By Jack Simmonds

In a London oblivious to magic, wizard P.I. Felix Freeman faces his toughest case yet. A dark wizard, once an esteemed MP, now delves into black magic's darkest arts. As Felix Freeman, a wizard P.I. with more sass than cash, takes on this case. As Felix races to find a magic ring and clear his name, will he outsmart the dark wizard who framed him, or fall into a moral abyss?

William Norton here. Council worker, recently single, and your typical London bloke—until my life took a left turn into the extraordinary at 13 Widdershins Lane. "Haunted," they said. But the real surprise? The Wizard in the attic.

Like most, I never believed in magic, wands, or demons - but that was until I met the wizard and saw it for myself.

Meet Felix Freeman: Wizard P.I. He isn't your average wizard, nor your average thirty-something. He's short on clients and cash, but overflowing with wit and wizardry. He's a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, and then some. Just imagine Harry Potter, grown up, with an attitude problem.

These are dangerous times — a dark wizard is on the loose, hunting for a powerful ring, leaving a trail of magical murders in his wake.

The race for a ring of power thrusts us into his path. Felix is locked in a game of magical cat-and-mouse with a dark wizard, a battle of wits that leads us all the way to a showdown at St. Paul's Cathedral.

Magic isn't just real—it's dangerous.

Together, Felix and Norton uncover a chilling plot orchestrated by Edward Rappaport, a once-revered ex-MP now entangled in black magic. Their interference sparks a dangerous game with a man who has nothing left to lose.

If you're a fan of the Dresden Files, prepare for 'Wizard for Hire'—an urban fantasy set in the heart of magical London. Picture a wizard private investigator, and an unsuspecting Londoner uncovering a world where magic and reality clash. It's a tale that packs more bite than a werewolf with the munchies.

Experience the thrilling dynamic between two contrasting characters: the down-to-earth William Norton and the enigmatic wizard, Felix Freeman.

Step into William Norton's shoes and discover a hidden world of magic, blending urban fantasy with the thrill of a P.I. mystery. 'Wizard for Hire' awaits – are you ready to be spellbound?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Simmonds
• Release date: Jan 23, 2024
• ISBN: 9798215524329

Jack Simmonds

Jack Simmonds was born and raised in London, England. He is a fiction author and novelist, writing magical fantasy books for children, teenagers and adults. His approach to writing is about bringing a sense of the believable into the unbelievable — i.e. magic! His books are written to be suspenseful, humorous and thoroughly entertaining! They will make you laugh, cry and want to read ’til the very end. Tea, coffee, in fact anything with caffiene gets him through the writing process, which he’s described as “a bigger pain in the ass than a chair made of porcupines...”

Book preview

Chapter 1

13 Widdershins Lane

I crouch down, phone torch in hand to light up the dark, dusty space under the bed. The light cuts through the gloom, scattering dust motes that dance in the beam. And there it is, tucked away in the corner – a shiny wooden stick thing, glinting oddly in the torchlight. As I pick it up, there’s a tingle in my fingers. Weird, like licking a battery. It feels alive, buzzing with an energy that's a bit too eager for my liking. Easy there, I whisper.

I stand up, the mysterious stick in hand, and give it a closer gander. This stick looks like the kind of thing a hardcore Harry Potter nerd or some hippy pagan type would be into. It's about 10 inches long, made of some smooth, dark wood that feels surprisingly solid and well-crafted in my grip. The handle's embedded with two dozen crystals or so, all colours of the rainbow, shimmering in a way that's a bit unnerving, if I'm honest.

I turn it over in my hands, impressed despite myself. This is proper craftsmanship, this is, I mutter, tracing the crystals with my finger. It's got a heft to it that suggests it's not just for show. I can't help but think the previous tenant had some seriously out-there hobbies.

My finger brushes one of the ruby-red crystals, and, to my shock, it lights up! My heart skips a beat.

Suddenly, my chair opposite me, lifts off the ground and hovers mid-air.

Bloody hell! I gasp, panic knotting in my stomach. The laws of physics just crumbled around me, and I'm powerless to do anything but gape in horror.

This is nuts. Completely bonkers. Chairs floating? That's the stuff of sci-fi, not my crummy London flat. But there it is, defying gravity and all sense. I'm rooted to the spot, mouth agape, wondering what TV channel this prank would be shown on.

Either that, or I'm losing my marbles.

With a mouth as dry as the Sahara, I glance back at the wand. Maybe if I press the crystal again, it'll all go back to normal, I think, naively hopeful. So, gingerly, I tap the red crystal again, wincing in anticipation.

But oh, I couldn't have been more wrong.

In an instant, my quiet room explodes into a frenzy. The bed starts walking, books are flapping off the shelves like a flock of startled pigeons, and every little knick-knack's having a dance party. The room's a tornado of chaos, and I'm smack in the middle of it. My pulse hammers in my ears. I'm caught in a whirlwind of fear and disbelief, each flying book and dancing object amplifying my sense of unreality.

Alright, keep your head, Will, I mutter. My heart's thumping a mile a minute, adrenaline surging like I've downed a dozen espressos.

I dodge a flying book, feeling the whoosh as it grazes past my ear. Ahh I scream. I'm tripping over my own feet, ducking and diving as the bed decides to take flight, then crash lands like a drunk seagull. Clothes twist and twirl around me, like they're auditioning for 'Strictly Come Dancing'. I cover my ears – the flap, flap, flapping of books, the thuds of a possessed wardrobe, and the general cacophony of my life turning upside down, deafening.

I can taste the dust kicked up by the commotion, smell the musty scent of yellowed book pages. My brain's screaming, This can't be real! but my eyes are telling a different story. I'm desperate, absolutely desperate, to put a stop to this mayhem before my room's reduced to rubble or worse, someone gets hurt.

Come on, Norton, think! I urge myself, dodging another airborne book.

Desperation claws at me as the chaos whirls around. My throat tightens, panic setting in. This has to stop, now. As I lunge for the wand, a heavy book hurtles towards me, its shadow looming large. This is it, I think, bracing myself as the world narrows to the impending collision.

24 HOURS BEFORE

There I am, parking my 2006 Ford Fiesta behind an ancient purple Mini Cooper that looks like it's been through a few too many battles. The poor thing's so dilapidated it makes me wince – its paint job faded to a patchy mauve, rust creeping along the edges like unwanted ivy. It sticks out like a sore thumb amidst the sea of shiny electric cars and posh 4x4s lining the street. Mind you, so does mine.

Slapping the parking permit on my dashboard - a flimsy bit of paper that's supposed to protect me from the vultures of the Traffic Warden brigade. I haul my bags out, thinking, Here we go, William, new chapter and all that jazz.

13 Widdershins Lane stands there, looming over me like an old relative at a family do - slightly out of place but undeniably part of the scene. It's a grand old Victorian number, with a bit of a slouch, like it's tired of keeping up appearances among the posh Georgian and Victorian neighbours. The light's doing this eerie dance around it, casting shadows that make me think of every ghost story I've ever heard.

The street's alive with London's soundtrack – the distant murmur of traffic, the occasional laugh from passersby, and that distinct city scent – a mix of rain, exhaust, and the promise of a kebab shop around the corner.

As I'm lugging my worldly possessions up the steps to the front door, a neighbour with a face like he's chewed a wasp says, You moving in?

I stop. Er, yeah.

He gives a knowing chuckle. Good luck in there. You'll need it. His tone's got that 'I know something you don't' vibe, and I'm thinking, What's he on about? Haunted? Structural issues? Rising damp?

Rewind to how I got here. I saw the ad for this place in a post office window. It's like it was waiting for me – a room at a bargain price in Bloomsbury, of all places. A bit too good to be true, you know? This central to London. But with my ex having given me the boot and the prospect of another night on Nigel's sofa (which, by the way, has the comfort level of a bag of potatoes), I was in no position to be choosy.

So, I ring up the number, this woman introduces herself as ‘Ms McCall’, I was expecting a bit of a palaver, but she's like, Sure, the room's yours. No questions asked. Normally, I'd be a bit more Sherlock about it, but desperate times and all that.

There I am, standing in front of this grand old house, with its shiny black door that seems to suck in the light. The door knocker, a serpent, is a piece of art really – all intricate scales and a tongue that looks almost too real. But, you know, I've got this thing about snakes. I can handle rats, spiders and even heights, but snakes, they made my belly go all gooey.

Hesitantly, I lift the knocker and rap it against the door. I glance away, up the street, trying to distract my racing heart with the view of the garden square. It's then, out of the corner of my eye, I swear I see it – the serpent's eye seems to flicker, a wink or something. No way, I think, my heart skipping a beat.

As I'm still processing this, the door clicks and swings open slowly. Hello? I call out. But there’s no one. I step inside, the door slamming shut behind me with a bang that nearly sends me jumping out of my skin.

What a terrible cliche, I think.

The quiet was instant, like, that door literally shut out every single noise. The wallpaper, with its endless pairs of eyes, seems to follow my every move as I crept a few paces up the hallway. It's an eerie welcome, one that makes me long for the predictability of my old life, where the scariest thing I faced was a leaky tap or a cold cup of coffee. Well, this is it, I mutter to myself, taking in the stillness of my new, peculiar home.

I was barely getting my bearings in the dim hallway when Ms. McCall came marching out of a nearby room, a whirlwind of speed and pink satin. Dumpy and commanding, she was swathed in a dressing gown that seemed at odds with the faded surroundings. A cigarette dangled from her lips, its smoke swirling around her in a hazy veil. Her voice, raspy and brisk, cut through the quiet with an air of impatience.

You must be Mr. Nordon, she said, in a cockney accent, barely glancing at me over the rim of her glasses. I didn't correct her. Right, let's get this sorted, chop-chop! she urged, thrusting a contract into my hands.

The document was dense, and I barely had a chance to even see my name printed at the top before she was rushing me to sign. She shoved a pen in my hand and I hastily scribbled on the dotted line, not entirely sure what I was agreeing to.

And the cash? she asked abruptly, her hand already outstretched. I fumbled for the envelope in my pocket, stuffed with the first month's rent and deposit, and handed it over. She snatched it, giving the contents a quick once-over. Good, she said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, and just like that, I was officially a tenant at 13 Widdershins Lane. I gave a longing look toward the cash stuffed envelope that disappeared into the pink robe, that was the last of my savings.

Good, that's done, she said briskly, snatching the contract back. Just so you know, it's a 12-month lease. Leave early, and you can kiss your deposit goodbye. Her tone suggested this was non-negotiable.

She then nodded towards a tall, nerdy figure lingering in the background. This is Dave, she introduced. He was lanky, with thick glasses perched on his nose, giving off strong IT vibes.

How many people are living here? I asked, trying to sound casual.

There's another, Ms. McCall said, her response deliberately vague, a slight smirk playing on her lips.

I couldn't help but feel uneasy at the cryptic nature of her response. The smoke from her cigarette enveloped me, and I fought the urge to cough, not wanting to seem rude or weak.

Well then, let's give you a quick tour, Ms. McCall announced suddenly, turning on her heel in a brisk walk. Follow me. I hurried after her, trying to keep pace with her surprisingly swift strides.

Ms. McCall leads me on a whirlwind tour. We start in the living room, where the furniture looks like it's been drafted in from various decades of a charity shop. Comfy enough, just don't sit on the armchair with the springs sticking out, she advises with a shrug.

The kitchen's next, a cramped testament to culinary chaos. Cook whatever you like, but never turn on the oven and the kettle at the same time, unless you fancy being blown up, she warns, already moving on.

We breeze past her room then Dave's on the first floor, but there's not even a pause for a curious glance. Whatever you do, don't even think about setting foot in my room, she says, her eyes gleaming with a mix of warning and a peculiar sort of mirth.

Here's the bathroom, Ms. McCall declares, ushering me into a space that's a throwback to another era. My eyes are immediately drawn to the tub – an antique piece with claw feet, against a backdrop of floor to ceiling black and green tiles that give off a distinctly Fungus the Bogeyman vibe. Feel free to enjoy a bath, just try and avoid it at midnight, she quips with a wry smile. Unless, of course, you fancy a chat with Ethel, our resident opera-singing ghost.

I force a chuckle at what I presumed to be a joke.

We ascend to the top floor, the air shifts and it's darker up here. There's an uncanny quiet, like the hush of a theatre between acts. The landing is tight, and my room's door has a certain ‘avoid me’ vibe – all chipped paint and a handle that's seen better days.

But it's the raven picture on the wall that really catches my eye. Can't quite put my finger on why, but I'm drawn to it. The raven's black eyes seem to track my every move, and there's something peculiar about the wall behind it. It's not peeling or damp; it just looks... off.

I've always found that picture a bit mesmerising, Ms. McCall chimes in, noticing my fixed gaze. Anyway. This is the spare room, Ms. McCall says, flinging open a door to reveal a space that's more storage than bedroom. I glance inside, then back at her. If this is the spare room, where does the other housemate sleep?

She hesitates, her eyes darting away. Not sure, really, she says, evading a straight answer. Finally, she hands me the keys to my room. Good luck, she says with a wry smile, disappearing down the stairs as quickly as she appeared. I give the raven a quick glance, before stepping into my new room.

The reason why it the rent was so cheap, now becomes obvious. The room is spacious, with a large window overlooking the quaint garden square. It's got this old-world charm – but also; a fireplace that's clearly been out of use for years, creaky, splintering hardwood floors, peeling wall paint, and a wardrobe that looks like it survived a couple of wars. A thick layer of dust, and a musty smell suggest it's been a while since anyone called this place home.

Determined to make it a bit more habitable, I start cleaning. I'm sweeping, dusting, and rearranging, trying to breathe life back into the room. The sunlight streaming through the window helps, making the place feel a bit less like a scene from a Dickens novel. I put my clothes away in the wardrobe, put my bedding on, and arrange my nik-naks on the side table. A comfy chair by the window looks like a good reading spot. I grab my book, flick the lamp on, which casts a nice warm glow to my now presentable room and sit down.

Ouch - I just sat on something hard. I pull out the offending item and glance over it. It’s a small, folding mirror. At first glance, it looks pretty ordinary, but as I pick it up, I notice something unusual. Around the edge, there are markings – not Norse, something else, intricate and unfamiliar. It must have been left by the last person who lived here. Holding it closer, I'm trying to decipher the strange symbols, when suddenly, my heart leaps into my throat. In the glass, a face appears that's not my own. It's a man, early 30s, with long dark hair and a hook nose, his expression one of curiosity. Horror-struck, I drop the mirror, which clatters but doesn’t break on the floor. I spin around, but there’s no one there. Picking the mirror up, I stare at the spot where I saw the face, but now there's only my own reflection looking back, pale and wide-eyed. Who in the world was that? I whisper to myself, a chill running down my spine. The mirror, with its cryptic markings and unexpected visitor, has suddenly become the most intriguing and unnerving object in the room.

Settling into my first night, I make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth. As I squeeze out the toothpaste, my eyes wander to a shelf lined with peculiar glass bottles. Each one bears a label, scripted as if from Victorian times - a curious collection resembling antiques rather than bathroom essentials.

I go downstairs, brew myself a cup of good old Yorkshire tea. I don't bump into anyone else in the house, which suits me just fine. I climb into bed and observe the lumpy mattress, wriggling to get comfy. As I'm lying there, thoughts of my ex-girlfriend swirl around my head. I check my phone before putting it on charge: no messages from her. Not surprising, but still a bit gutting. I switch off the lamp, ready for some shut-eye, when I hear it.

Tap, tap, tap. Right at the window.

I sit up. Tap, tap, tap.

What the hell? The floor's cold under my feet, a sharp contrast to the snugness under the covers. I pull back the curtain and right there on the window ledge, staring at me with an intensity that's frankly unnerving, was a raven.

It's just sat there watching me. I clap my hands at it. It doesn’t move. Oi, scram! I say, opening the window to shoo it away. The raven doesn't budge, just tilts its head, as if amused. With a huff, I close the window and draw the curtains, feeling an odd shiver as I climb back into bed that had little to do with the cold. The reason why that postcard was always up in the post office advertising this room, why Ms. McCall had made him sign the contract without barely a glance, and the reason why this room in such a desirable part of central London, started to make sense to me now.

My alarm jolts me awake at 7:15am, shattering my dream where I'm back in my old flat – cozy, warm, familiar, mine. I sit up in this new, unfamiliar bed and sigh. The reality of housemates looms over me. Will there be a queue for the shower? Will I have to make pointless small talk with strangers? What if they used all my milk?

Slippers on (the floor's freezing), I shuffle off to tackle the shower. It's an old contraption, looking like it needs a degree in engineering to operate. After fiddling with knobs and dials, I get a trickle that smells faintly of rust and old pipes but warms up eventually. As I'm lathering up, the shower starts to hum – not your usual plumbing noises, but actual tunes, like someones playing the accordion through the wall. When did a plumber last visit this house?

At 7:42am, I'm in the kitchen, alone thank god, reaching for a mug with symbols on it that seem oddly familiar but I can’t recall. I place it on the counter, then turn to grab the jar of instant coffee. When I glance back, the mug's gone. I look up—it’s back in the cupboard. Okay, I say to myself, trying to rationalise it. Maybe there's some sort of spring mechanism in the cupboard?

I place the mug back on the counter, watching it carefully this time. But, as if defying all laws of physics, it zips right back into the cupboard again. Right, this must be one of those novelty mugs, I convince myself, reaching for another mug, which this time, stays where it should.

It’s 8:30am, I'm heading out for work. Just as I'm about to step off the porch, a sudden, sharp bark echoes out of nowhere.

Ahh! Startled, I nearly tumble down the front steps. Regaining my balance, I spin around, a raven’s perched brazenly nearby. It cocks its head, eyeing me with an unnerving calmness. As I descend the steps, I keep my eye on the little sod, it’s been less than 24 hours and I’ve already made an enemy.

Strolling past Russell Square, I soak in the quiet morning. Bloomsbury's a postcard of the past, with its Georgian townhouses and the buzz of the British Museum. I hit Euston Road, blending into a mix of tourists and bleary-eyed locals. The cold air turns our breaths into a chorus of mini clouds. I pass through the noise and hubbub of King's Cross, landing at 5 Pancras Square, the vibe shifts from quaint to corporate. Time to face the day job.

I slip into the office at Camden London Borough Council, hoping to dodge any early-morning chit-chat and make it to the third floor without a hitch, but then just as my desk is in sight, a huge pair of middle aged breasts loom out in front of me. My heart sinks. Wendy Partridge must have waiting to pounce.

I veer off into the kitchen and start making a coffee, but she follows. How you holding up, Will? she says in such a pitying way it makes all the masculinity I had left just evaporate out of me. Heard Ginny's got a new bloke already, she says, with that 'I'm trying to be sympathetic but also nosy' look.

I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant as I stir the milk in. Yeah, well, life goes on, doesn't it? But inside, it stings. I miss her, and I miss our cosy flat in Clapham – our shared jokes, our shared memories, the way she'd make the coffee. But I wouldn’t let Wendy Partridge with her long red nails know that. See ya.

I scurry away from the gossip monger, noting the pitying looks from the women in accounts. I reach my desk, a shrine to all things mundane - a landscape of paperwork and a PC that's more antique than tech.

My mate Nigel eyes me over the felt cubicle divider with a ‘what’s she like’ look. Let me guess, he said, she was asking you about Ginny?

Like vultures them lot, I say, I only moved out a few days ago.

Word travels fast. Nigel leaned a little higher over the cubicle wall. How is the new flat?

I'm at 13 Widdershins Lane now, I say, bracing for his reaction.

Nigel whistles. Heard some spooky tales about that place. It's supposed to be proper haunted. You sure you're alright there?

His words send a shiver down my spine, reminding me of the ghostly face in the mirror. I wish I’d known about this apparent haunted house before finding the advert. It's... interesting, I admit.

Right he said. You’re more than welcome to stay at mine a few more nights, until you find somewhere better like.

Nigel's offer is tempting, especially after the weirdness at Widdershins. But then I remember a few nights before waking up on his fart covered sofa, with a half-eaten curry under my pillow and pulling out a KFC chicken bone that had poking me in the ribs.

I’m sure, I add quickly.

Even though Nigel's flat was dirtier than a pig's sty after a mud bath party, he's still the only mate I've got in this mad city. He's the one bloke I trust, the only one who knows the whole Ginny saga. And fair play to him, he did let me crash at his when I was practically homeless. Sure, it's a friendship that tests my immune system and tolerance for half-eaten curries, but it's solid.

As I start on a pile of compliance forms, Nigel, with his ginger hair and youthful, freckled face, scoots closer. So? he says. What’s it like? Is it haunted like they say?

Wouldn't be surprised, I reply, half-joking. This morning, my mug⁠—

Your mug what? he said.

I gulped. It… vanished back into the cupboard.

Nigel eyes me with a long look, then laughs. You and your stories, Will. Keep it for your book, mate. he laughs. Did you ever hear back from that writing competition you entered?

No, I lied, too proud to admit that my novel didn’t even make it past the first round.

An hour later, I’m deep in paperwork at my desk, I'm jolted by a tap, tap, tap at the window. I glance up and, lo and behold, it's that raven again. What the hell, I mutter as it eyes me.

I nudge Nigel, nodding towards the window. Look at that, this bird keeps— But, as luck would have it, the moment he looks, the raven’s gone. Classic. Nigel just shrugs, giving me a curios look and I'm left looking like I've started on the morning whisky.

Then in struts Martin, the office's self-appointed kingpin, flanked by his usual lackeys. What's this, Norton? Birdwatching? he jeers.

E-er, no, I stammer, caught off guard.

Martin smirks. Yeah, I was bird watching this morning too. Saw this cracking brunette, newly single too I heard, or is she? His insinuation about Ginny makes my blood boil.

He leans in, lowering his voice. Moving on quickly, hasn’t she? The smug look on his face is like a slap.

I should say something witty, put him in his place. But the words stick in my throat. Sod off, I mutter, turning back to my screen.

Martin, undeterred, turns his attention to Nigel. Surprised you haven't had a go at his ex, Nigel. You're always so desperate, aren't you?

Then Nigel croaks, Why don’t you leave us alone and do some work.

Martin laughs, walking away with his cronies. Don't get your feathers ruffled boys.

Left to stew in my frustration, I can't help but feel a pang of regret. I sit there, simmering with frustration and shame. I should've stood up for myself, really told him off, not just for me but for Ginny too.

Trudging home in the dark, my mind is a whirlwind of dark, intrusive and vengeful thoughts. The cold London air bites at my cheeks. Approaching 13 Widdershins Lane, I pause, taking in the house's looming silhouette against the night sky. Thankfully, no sign of the raven tonight. I wonder who I disliked more, Martin or the raven? It’s a close call, but Martin wins it, I’d love to get my own back on that grinning, self-satisfied prick. Sorry for swearing, but he really is.

Fumbling for my keys as I reach the front door, it clicks open before I can even get them in the lock. Thanks, I muse, glancing at the brass serpent door knocker that I swear winked at me the first time I saw it. Nah, couldn't have been, I dismiss the thought. A bit uneasy about the security of this self-opening door. But really, who'd be mad enough to burgle this spooky place?

I trudge upstairs, noticing the absence of any signs of life from my housemates. As I sit in the old, dusty chair by the window, the day's frustrations swirl in my mind. The raven's bizarre appearances, the front door that opens on its own accord, and that vanishing mug, the pitying glances and Martin's jibes - it's all too much. The urge to smack Martin for his snide remarks still simmers in me. I hate how I've lost my backbone, how easily I've become the office doormat. Gazing out into the darkness, my thoughts inevitably drift to Ginny. Each memory of her, our time together, stirs like a frothing pot of oil, dangerously close to spilling over with heated feelings and unresolved emotions.

Then, my eyes catch the small folding mirror above the fireplace. It's strange – it's not reflecting the room but showing something else. I grab it. In the mirror, a vision shimmers on the surface. This wasn’t a mirror at all, it’s a small iPad, or is it? No. Maybe? I wonder aloud. But no, that can't be right. The image is too vivid, too real. I say mirror, but this wasn’t even